The Angel that presided o’er my birth

Said, “Little creature, form’d of Joy & Mirth,

Go love without the help of any Thing on Earth.”

MORNING

To find the Western path

Right thro’ the Gates of Wrath

I urge my way;

Sweet Mercy leads me on:

With soft repentant moan

I see the break of day.

The war of swords & spears

Melted by dewy tears

Exhales on high;

The Sun is freed from fears

And with soft grateful tears

Ascends the sky.

Terror in the house does roar,

But Pity stands before the door.

Mock on, Mock on, Voltaire, Rousseau:

Mock on, Mock on; ’tis all in vain!

You throw the sand against the wind,

And the wind blows it back again.

And every sand becomes a Gem

Reflected in the beams divine;

Blown back they blind the mocking Eye,

But still in Israel’s paths they shine.

The Atoms of Democritus

And Newton’s Particles of light

Are sands upon the Red sea shore,

Where Israel’s tents do shine so bright.

My Spectre around me night & day

Like a Wild beast guards my way.

My Emanation far within

Weeps incessantly for my Sin.

A Fathomless & boundless deep,

There we wander, there we weep;

On the hungry craving wind

My Spectre follows thee behind.

He scents thy footsteps in the snow,

Wheresoever thou dost go

Thro’ the wintry hail & rain.

When wilt thou return again?

Dost thou not in Pride & scorn

Fill with tempests all my morn,

And with jealousies & fears

Fill my pleasant nights with tears?

Seven of my sweet loves thy knife

Has bereaved of their life.

Their marble tombs I built with tears

And with cold & shuddering fears.

Seven more loves weep night & day

Round the tombs where my loves lay,

And seven more loves attend each night

Around my couch with torches bright.

And seven more Loves in my bed

Crown with wine my mournful head,

Pitying & forgiving all

Thy transgressions, great & small.

When wilt thou return & view

My loves, & them to life renew?

When wilt thou return & live?

When wilt thou pity as I forgive?

“Never, Never, I return:

Still for Victory I burn.

Living, thee alone I’ll have

And when dead I’ll be thy Grave.

“Thro’ the Heaven & Earth & Hell

Thou shalt never never quell:

I will fly & thou pursue,

Night & Mom the flight renew.”

Till I turn from Female Love,

And root up the Infernal Grove,

I shall never worthy be ..

To Step into Eternity.

And, to end thy cruel mocks,

Annihilate thee on the rocks,

And another form create

To be subservient to my Fate.

Let us agree to give up Love,

And root up the infernal grove;

Then shall we return & see

The worlds of happy Eternity.

& Throughout all Eternity

I forgive you, you forgive me.

As our dear Redeemer said:

“This the Wine & this the Bread.”

[Additional stanzas]

O‘er my Sins thou sit & moan:

Hast thou no sins of thy own?

O’er my Sins thou sit & weep,

And lull thy own Sins fast asleep.

What Transgressions I commit

Are for thy Transgressions fit.

They thy Harlots, thou their slave,

And my Bed becomes their Grave.

Poor pale pitiable form

That I follow in a Storm,

Iron tears & groans of lead

Bind around my aking head.

THE MENTAL TRAVELLER

I travel’d thro’ a Land of Men,

A Land of Men & Women too,

And heard & saw such dreadful things

As cold Earth wanderers never knew.

For there the Babe is born in joy

That was begotten in dire woe;

Just as we Reap in joy the fruit

Which we in bitter tears did sow.

And if the Babe is born a Boy

He’s given to a Woman Old,

Who nails him down upon a rock,

Catches his shrieks in cups of gold.

She binds iron thorns around his head,

She pierces both his hands & feet,

She cuts his heart out at his side

To make it feel both cold & heat.

Her fingers number every Nerve,

Just as a Miser counts his gold;

She lives upon his shrieks & cries,

And she grows young as he grows old.

Till he becomes a bleeding youth,

And she becomes a Virgin bright;

Then he rends up his Manacles

And binds her down for his delight.

He plants himself in all her Nerves,

Just as a Husbandman his mould;

And she becomes his dwelling place

And Garden fruitful seventy fold.

An aged, Shadow, soon he fades,

Wand’ring round an Earthly Cot,

Full filled all with gems & gold

Which he by industry had got.

And these are the gems of the Human Soul,

The rubies & pearls of a lovesick eye,

The countless gold of the akeing heart,

The martyr’s groan & the lover’s sigh.

They are his meat, they are his drink;

He feeds the Beggar & the Poor

And the wayfaring Traveller:

For ever open is his door.

His grief is their eternal joy;

They make the roofs & walls to ring;

Till from the fire on the hearth

A little Female Babe does spring.

And she is all of solid fire

And gems & gold, that none his hand

Dares stretch to touch her Baby form,

Or wrap her in his swaddling-band.

But She comes to the Man she loves,

If young or old, or rich or poor;

They soon drive out the aged Host,

A Beggar at another’s door.

He wanders weeping far away,

Until some other take him in;

Oft blind & age-bent, sore distrest,

Untill he can a Maiden win.

And to allay his freezing Age

The Poor Man takes her in his arms;

The Cottage fades before his sight,

The Garden & its lovely Charms.

The Guests are scatter’d thro’ the land,

For the Eye altering alters all;

The Senses roll themselves in fear,

And the flat Earth becomes a Ball;

The stars, sun, Moon, all shrink away,

A desart vast without a bound,

And nothing left to eat or drink,

And a dark desart all around.

The honey of her Infant lips,

The bread & wine of her sweet smile,

The wild game of her roving Eye,

Does him to Infancy beguile;

For as he eats & drinks he grows

Younger & younger every day;

And on the desart wild they both

Wander in terror & dismay.

Like the wild Stag she flees away,

Her fear plants many a thicket wild;

While he pursues her night & day,

By various arts of Love beguil’d,

By various arts of Love & Hate,

Till the wide desart planted o’er

With Labyrinths of wayward Love,

Where roam the Lion, Wolf & Boar,

Till he becomes a wayward Babe,

And she a weeping Woman Old.

Then many a Lover wanders here;

The Sun & Stars are nearer roll’d.

The trees bring forth sweet Extacy

To all who in the desart roam;

Till many a City there is Built,

And many a pleasant Shepherd’s home.

But when they find the frowning Babe,

Terror strikes thro’ the region wide:

They cry “The Babel the Babe is Born!”

And flee away on Every side.

For who dare touch the frowning form,

His arm is wither’d to its root;

Lions, Boars, Wolves, all howling flee,

And every Tree does shed its fruit.

And none can touch that frowning form,

Except it be a Woman Old;

She nails him down upon the Rock,

And all is done as I have told.

THE CRYSTAL CABINET

The Maiden caught me in the Wild,

Where I was dancing merrily;

She put me into her Cabinet

And Lock’d me up with a golden Key.

This Cabinet is form’d of Gold

And Pearl & Crystal shining bright,

And within it opens into a World

And a little lovely Moony Night.

Another England there I saw,

Another London with its Tower,

Another Thames & other Hills,

And another pleasant Surrey Bower,

Another Maiden like herself,

Translucent, lovely, shining clear,

Threefold each in the other clos’d—

O, what a pleasant trembling fear!

0, what a smile! a threefold Smile

Fill’d me, that like a flame I burn’d;

I bent to Kiss the lovely Maid,

And found a Threefold Kiss return’d.

I strove to sieze the inmost Form

With ardor fierce & hands of flame,

But burst the Crystal Cabinet,

And like a Weeping Babe became—

A weeping Babe upon the wild,

And Weeping Woman pale reclin’d,

And in the outward air again

I fill’d with woes the passing Wind.

AUGURIES OF INNOCENCE

To see a World in a Grain of Sand

And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,

Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand

And Eternity in an hour.

A Robin Red breast in a Cage

Puts all Heaven in a Rage.

A dove house fill’d with doves & Pigeons

Shudders Hell thro’ all its regions.

A dog starv’d at his Master’s Gate

Predicts the ruin of the State.

A Horse misus’d upon the Road

Calls to Heaven for Human blood.

Each outcry of the hunted Hare

A fibre from the Brain does tear.

A Skylark wounded in the wing,

A Cherubim does cease to sing.

The Game Cock clip’d & arm’d for fight

Does the Rising Sun affright.

Every Wolfs & Lion’s howl

Raises from Hell a Human Soul.

The wild deer, wand‘ring here & there,

Keeps the Human Soul from Care.

The Lamb misus’d breeds Public strife

And yet forgives the Butcher’s Knife.

The Bat that flits at close of Eve

Has left the Brain that won’t Believe.

The Owl that calls upon the Night

Speaks the Unbeliever’s fright.

He who shall hurt the little Wren

Shall never be belov’d by Men.

He who the Ox to wrath has mov’d

Shall never be by Woman lov’d.

The wanton Boy that kills the Fly

Shall feel the Spider’s enmity.

He who torments the Chafer’s sprite

Weaves a Bower in endless Night.

The Catterpiller on the Leaf

Repeats to thee thy Mother’s grief.

Kill not the Moth nor Butterfly,

For the Last Judgment draweth nigh.

He who shall train the Horse to War

Shall never pass the Polar Bar.

The Beggar’s Dog & Widow’s Cat,

Feed them & thou wilt grow fat.

The Gnat that sings his Summer’s song

Poison gets from Slander’s tongue.

The poison of the Snake & Newt

Is the sweat of Envy’s Foot.

The Poison of the Honey Bee

Is the Artist’s Jealousy.

The Prince’s Robes & Beggar’s Rags

Are Toadstools on the Miser’s Bags.

A truth that’s told with bad intent

Beats all the Lies you can invent.

It is right it should be so;

Man was made for Joy & Woe;

And when this we rightly know

Thro’ the World we safely go,

Joy & Woe are woven fine,

A Clothing for the Soul divine;

Under every grief & pine

Runs a joy with silken twine.

The Babe is more than swadling Bands;

Throughout all these Human Lands

Tools were made, & Born were hands,

Every Farmer Understands.

Every Tear from Every Eye

Becomes a Babe in Eternity;

This is caught by Females bright

And return’d to its own delight.

The Bleat, the Bark, Bellow & Roar

Are Waves that Beat on Heaven’s Shore.

The Babe that weeps the Rod beneath

Writes Revenge in realms of death.

The Beggar’s Rags, fluttering in Air,

Does to Rags the Heavens tear.

The Soldier, arm’d with Sword & Gun,

Palsied strikes the Summer’s Sun.

The poor Man’s Farthing is worth more

Than all the Gold on Afric’s Shore.

One Mite wrung from the Labrer’s hands

Shall buy & sell the Miser’s Lands:

Or, if protected from on high,

Does that whole Nation sell & buy.

He who mocks the Infant’s Faith

Shall be mock’d in Age & Death.

He who shall teach the Child to Doubt

The rotting Grave shall ne’er get out.

He who respects the Infant’s faith

Triumphs over Hell & Death.

The Child’s Toys & the Old Man’s Reasons

Are the Fruits of the Two seasons.

The Questioner, who sits so sly,

Shall never know how to Reply.

He who replies to words of Doubt

Doth put the Light of Knowledge out.

The Strongest Poison ever known

Came from Caesar’s Laurel Crown.

Nought can deform the Human Race

Like to the Armour’s iron brace.

When Cold & Gems adorn the Plow

To peaceful Arts shall Envy Bow.

A Riddle or the Cricket’s Cry

Is to Doubt a fit Reply.

The Emmet’s Inch & Eagle’s Mile

Make Lame Philosophy to smile.

He who Doubts from what he sees

Will ne‘er Believe, do what you Please.

If the Sun & Moon should doubt,

They’d immediately Go out.

To be in a Passion you Good may do,

But no Good if a Passion is in you.

The Whore & Gambler, by the State

Licenc’d, build that Nation’s Fate.

The Harlot’s cry from Street to Street

Shall weave Old England’s winding Sheet.

The Winner’s Shout, the Loser’s Curse.

Dance before dead England’s Hearse.

Every Night & every Morn

Some to Misery are Born.

Every Morn & every Night

Some are Born to sweet delight.

Some are Born to sweet delight,

Some are Born to Endless Night.

We are led to Believe a Lie

When we see not Thro’ the Eye

Which was Born in a Night to perish in a Night

When the Soul Slept in Beams of Light.

God Appears & God is Light

To those poor Souls who dwell in Night,

But does a Human Form Display

To those who Dwell in Realms of day.

THE GREY MONK

“I die, I die!” the Mother said,

“My Children die for lack of Bread.

What more has the merciless Tyrant said?”

The Monk sat down on the Stony Bed.

The blood red ran from the Grey Monk’s side,

His hands & feet were wounded wide,

His Body bent, his arms & knees

Like to the roots of ancient trees.

His eye was dry; no tear could flow:

A hollow groan first spoke his woe.

He trembled & shudder’d upon the Bed;

At length with a feeble cry he said:

“When God commanded this hand to write

In the studious hours of deep midnight,

He told me the writing I wrote should prove

The Bane of all that on Earth I lov’d.

“My Brother starv’d between two Walls,

His Children’s Cry my Soul appalls;

I mock’d at the wrack & griding chain,

My bent body mocks their torturing pain.

“Thy Father drew his sword in the North,

With his thousands strong he marched forth;

Thy Brother has arm’d himself in Steel

To avenge the wrongs thy Children feel.

“But vain the Sword & vain the Bow,

They never can work War’s overthrow.

The Hermit’s Prayer & the Widow’s tear

Alone can free the World from fear.

“For a Tear is an Intellectual Thing,

And a Sigh is the Sword of an Angel King,

And the bitter groan of the Martyr’s woe

Is an Arrow from the Almightie’s Bow.

“The hand of Vengeance found the Bed

To which the Purple Tyrant fled;

The iron hand crush’d the Tyrant’s head

And became a Tyrant in his stead.”

LONG JOHN BROWN AND LITTLE MARY BELL

Little Mary Bell had a Fairy in a Nut,

Long John Brown had the Devil in his Gut;

Long John Brown lov’d Little Mary Bell,

And the Fairy drew the Devil into the Nut-shell.

Her Fairy skip’d out & her Fairy Skip’d in;

He laugh’d at the Devil saying “Love is a Sin.”

The Devil he raged & the Devil he was wroth,

And the Devil enter’d into the Young Man’s broth.

He was soon in the Gut of the loving Young Swain,

For John eat & drank to drive away Love’s pain;

But all he could do he grew thinner & thinner,

Tho’ he eat & drank as much as ten Men for his dinner.

Some said he had a Wolf in his stomach day & night,

Some said he had the Devil & they guess’d right;

The Fairy skip’d about in his Glory, Joy & Pride,

And he laugh’d at the Devil till poor John Brown died.

Then the Fairy skip’d out of the old Nut shell,

And woe & alack for Pretty Mary Belli

For the Devil crept in when the Fairy skip’d out,

And there goes Miss Bell with her fusty old Nut.

WILLIAM BOND

I wonder whether the Girls are mad,

And I wonder whether they mean to kill,

And I wonder if William Bond will die,

For assuredly he is very ill.

He went to Church in a May morning

Attended by Fairies, one, two & three;

But the Angels of Providence drove them away,

And he return’d home in Misery.

He went not out to the Field nor Fold,

He went not out to the Village nor Town,

But he came home in a black, black cloud,

And took to his Bed & there lay down.

And an Angel of Providence at his Feet,

And an Angel of Providence at his Head,

And in the midst a Black, Black Cloud,

And in the midst the Sick Man on his Bed.

And on his Right hand was Mary Green,

And on his Left hand was his Sister Jane,

And their tears fell thro’ the black, black Cloud

To drive away the sick man’s pain.

“O William, if thou dost another Love,

Dost another Love better than poor Mary,

Go & take that other to be thy Wife,

And Mary Green shall her servant be.”

“Yes, Mary, I do another Love,

Another I Love far better than thee,

And Another I will have for my Wife;

Then what have I to do with thee?

“For thou art Melancholy Pale,

And on thy Head is the cold Moon’s shine,

But she is ruddy & bright as day,

And the sun beams dazzle from her eyne.”

Mary trembled & Mary chill’d

And Mary fell’down on the right hand floor,

That William Bond & his Sister Jane

Scarce could recover Mary more.

When Mary woke & found her Laid

On the Right hand of her William dear,

On the Right hand of his loved Bed,

And saw her William Bond so near,

The Fairies that fled from William Bond

Danced around her Shining Head;

They danced over the Pillow white,

And the Angels of Providence left the Bed.

I thought Love liv’d in the hot sun shine,

But O, he lives in the Moony light !

I thought to find Love in the heat of day,

But sweet Love is the Comforter of Night.

Seek Love in the Pity of others’ Woe,

In the gentle relief of another’s care,

In the darkness of night & the winter’s snow,

In the naked & outcast, Seek Love there!

THE SMILE

There is a Smile of Love,

And there is a Smile of Deceit,

And there is a Smile of Smiles

In which these two Smiles meet.

And there is a Frown of Hate,

And there is a Frown of Disdain,

And there is a Frown of Frowns

Which you strive to forget in vain,

For it sticks in the Heart’s deep core

And it sticks in the deep Back bone;

And no Smile that ever was smil’d,

But only one Smile alone,

That betwixt the Cradle & Grave

It only once Smil’d can be;

But, when it once is Smil’d,

There’s an end to all Misery.

THE GOLDEN NET

Three Virgins at the break of day:

‘Whither, young Man, whither away ?

Alas for woel alas for woel”

They cry, & tears for ever flow.

The one was Cloth’d in flames of fire,

The other Cloth’d in iron wire,

The other Cloth’d in tears & sighs

Dazling bright before my Eyes.

They bore a Net of golden twine

To hang upon the branches fine.

Pitying I wept to see the woe

That Love & Beauty undergo,

To be consum’d in burning Fires

And in ungratified desires,

And in tears cloth’d Night & day

Melted all my Soul away.

When they saw my Tears, a Smile

That did Heaven itself beguile,

Bore the Golden Net aloft

As on downy Pinions soft

Over the Morning of my day.

Underneath the Net I stray,

Now intreating Burning Fire,

Now intreating Iron Wire,

Now intreating Tears & Sighs.

O when will the morning rise?

MARY

Sweet Mary, the first time she ever was there,

Came into the Ball room among the Fair;

The young Men & Maidens around her throng,

And these are the words upon every tongue:

“An Angel is here from the heavenly climes,

Or again does return the golden times;

Her eyes outshine every brilliant ray,

She opens her lips—’tis the Month of May.”

Mary moves in soft beauty & conscious delight

To augment with sweet smiles all the joys of the Night,

Nor once blushes to own to the rest of the Fair

That sweet Love & Beauty are worthy our care.

In the Morning the Villagers rose with delight

And repeated with pleasure the joys of the night,

And Mary arose among Friends to be free,

But no Friend from henceforward thou, Mary, shalt see.

Some said she was proud, some call’d her a whore,

And some, when she passed by, shut to the door;

A damp cold came o’er her, her blushes all fled;

Her lillies & roses are blighted & shed.

“O, why was I born with a different Face?

Why was I not born like this Envious Race?

Why did Heaven adorn me with bountiful hand,

And then set me down in an envious Land?

“To be weak as a Lamb & smooth as a dove,

And not to raise Envy, is call’d Christian Love;

But if you raise Envy your Merit’s to blame

For planting such spite in the weak & the tame.

“I will humble my Beauty, I will not dress fine,

I will keep from the Ball, & my Eyes shall not shine;

And if any Girl’s Lover forsakes her for me,

I’ll refuse him my hand & from Envy be free.”

She went out in Morning attir’d plain & neat;

“Proud Mary’s gone Mad,” said the Child in the Street;

She went out in Morning in plain neat attire,

And came home in Evening bespatter’d with mire.

She trembled & wept, sitting on the Bed side;

She forgot it was Night, & she trembled & cried;

She forgot it was Night, she forgot it was Morn,

Her soft Memory imprinted with Faces of Scorn,

With Faces of Scorn & with Eyes of disdain

Like foul Fiends inhabiting Mary’s mild Brain;

She remembers no Face like the Human Divine.

All Faces have Envy, sweet Mary, but thine;

And thine is a Face of sweet Love in despair,

And thine is a Face of mild sorrow & care,

And thine is a Face of wild terror & fear

That shall never be quiet till laid on its bier.

THE LAND. OF DREAMS

Awake, awake, my little Boy!

Thou wast thy Mother’s only joy;

Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep?

Awake! thy Father does thee keep.

“O, what Land is the Land of Dreams?

What are its Mountains & what are its Streams?

O Father, I saw my Mother there,

Among the Lillies by waters fair.

“Among the Lambs, clothed in white,

She walk’d with her Thomas in sweet delight.

I wept for joy, like a dove I mourn;

O! when shall I again return?”

Dear Child, I also by pleasant Streams

Have wander’d all Night in the Land of Dreams;

But tho’ calm & warm the waters wide,

I could not get to the other side.

“Father, O Father! what do we here

In this Land of unbelief & fear?

The Land of Dreams is better far,

Above the light of the Morning Star.”

DEDICATION OF THE ILLUSTRATIONS TO BLAIR’S GRAVE

TO THE QUEEN

The Door of Death is made of Gold,

That Mortal Eyes cannot behold;

But, when the Mortal Eyes are clos‘d,

And cold and pale the Limbs repos’d,

The Soul awakes; and, wond’ring, sees

In her mild Hand the golden Keys:

The Grave is Heaven’s golden Gate,

And rich and poor around it wait;

O Shepherdess of England’s Fold,

Behold this Gate of Pearl and Gold!

To dedicate to England’s Queen

The Visions that my Soul has seen,

And, by Her kind permission, bring

What I have borne on solemn Wing

From the vast regions of the Grave,

Before Her Throne my Wings I wave;

Bowing before my Sov’reign’s Feet,

“The Grave produc’d these Blossoms sweet

In mild repose from Earthly strife;

The Blossoms of Eternal Lifel”

If it is True, what the Prophets write,

That the heathen Gods are all stocks & stones,

Shall we, for the sake of being Polite,

Feed them with the juice of our marrow bones?

And if Bezaleel & Aholiab drew

What the Finger of God pointed to their View,

Shall we suffer the Roman & Grecian Rods

To compell us to worship them as Gods?

They stole them from the Temple of the Lord,

And Worshipp’d them that they might make

Inspired Art Abhorr’d.

The Wood & Stone were call’d The Holy Things

And their Sublime Intent given to their Kings,

All the Atonements of Jehovah spurn’d,

And Criminals to Sacrifices Turn’d.

Why was Cupid a Boy

And why a boy was he?

He should have been a Girl

For ought that I can see.

For he shoots with his bow,

And the Girl shoots with her Eye,

And they both are merry & glad

And laugh when we do cry.

And to make Cupid a Boy

Was the Cupid Girl’s mocking plan;

For a boy can’t interpret the thing

Till he is become a man.

And then he’s so pierc’d with cares

And wounded with arrowy smarts,

That the whole business of his life

Is to pick out the heads of the darts.

‘Twas the Greeks’ love of war

Turn’d Love into a Boy,

And Woman into a Statue of Stone—

And away flew every Joy.

When a Man has Married a Wife, he finds out whether

Her knees & elbows are only glewed together.

ON THE VIRGINITY OF THE VIRGIN MARY & JOHANNA SOUTHCOTT

Whate‘er is done to her she cannot know,

And if you’ll ask her she will swear it so.

Whether ’tis good or evil none’s to blame:

No one can take the pride, no one the shame.

Grown old in Love from Seven till Seven times Seven,

I oft have wish’d for Hell for Ease from Heaven.

Since all the Riches of this World

May be gifts from the Devil & Earthly Kings,

I should suspect that I worship’d the Devil

If I thank’d my God for Worldly things.

Nail his neck to the Cross: nail it with a nail.

Nail his neck to the Cross: ye all have power over his tail.

The Caverns of the Grave I’ve seen,

And these I shew’d to England’s Queen.

But now the Caves of Hell I view:

Who shall I dare to shew them to?

What mighty Soul in Beauty’s form

Shall dauntless View the Infernal Storm?

Egremont’s Countess can controll

The flames of Hell that round me roll.

If she refuse, I still go on

Till the Heavens & Earth are gone,

Still admir’d by Noble minds,

Follow’d by Envy on the winds,

Re-engrav’d Time after Time,

Ever in their youthful prime,

My designs unchang’d remain.

Time may rage but rage in vain.

Far above Time’s troubled Fountains

On the Great Atlantic Mountains,

In my Golden House on high,

There they Shine Eternally.

I rose up at the dawn of day—

Get thee away! get thee away!

Pray’st thou for Riches? away! away!

This is the Throne of Mammon grey.

Said I, “This sure is very odd.

I took it to be the Throne of God.

For every Thing besides I have:

It is only for Riches that I can crave.

“I have Mental Joy & Mental Health

And Mental Friends & Mental wealth;

I’ve a Wife I love & that loves me;

I’ve all but Riches Bodily.

“I am in God’s presence night & day,

And he never turns his face away.

The accuser of sins by my side does stand

”And he holds my money bag in his hand.

“For my worldly things God makes him pay,

And he’d pay more if to him I would pray;

And so you may do the worst you can do:

Be assur’d Mr. devil I won’t pray to you.

“Then If for Riches I must not Pray,

Cod knows I little of Prayers need say.

So as a Church is known by its Steeple,

If I pray it must be for other People.

“He says, if I do not worship him for a God,

I shall eat coarser food & go worse shod;

So as I don’t value such things as these,

You must do, Mr. devil, just as God please.”