Cur eget indignus quisquam, te divite
Time was, when down-declining toothless age, —
Was of a holy and divine presage,
Divining prudent and foretelling truth,
In sacred points instructing wand’ring youth.
But O detraction of our latter days,
How much from verity this age estrays!
Ranging the briery deserts of black sin,
Seeking a dismal cave to revel in.
This latter age, or member of that time
Of whom my snarling muse now thund’reth rhyme,
Wandered the brakes until a hidden cell
He found at length and still therein doth dwell.
The house of gain insatiate it is,
Which this hoar-aged peasant deems his bliss.
O that desire might hunt amongst that fur!
It should go hard but he would loose a cur
To rouse the fox hid in a bramble bush,
Who frighteth conscience with a wry-mouthed ‘Push!’
But what need I to wish or would it thus,
When I may find him starting at the Burse,
Where he infecteth other pregnant wits,
Making them co-heirs to his damned fits?
There may you see this writhen-faced mass
Of rotten mould’ring clay, that prating ass
That riddles wonders (mere compact of lies)
Of heaven, of hell, of earth and of the skies.
Of heaven thus he reasons: heaven there’s none,
Unless it be within his mansion.
O there is heaven. Why? Because there’s gold,
That from the late to this last age controlled
The massy sceptre of earth’s heavenly round,
Exiling forth her silver-paved bound
The leaders, brethren, brazen counterfeits
That in this golden age contempt begets.
‘Vaunt then immortal I, I only king,
And golden god of this eternal being.’
Of hell Cimmerian thus Avarus reasons:
‘Though hell be hot, yet it observeth seasons.’
Having within his kingdom residence,
O’er which his godhead hath preeminence,
An obscure angel of his heaven it is,
Wherein’s contained that hell-devouring bliss.
Into this hell sometimes an angel falls,
Whose white aspect black forlorn souls appalls,
And that is when a saint believing gold,
Old in that heaven, young in being old,
Falls headlong down into that pit of woe,
Fit for such damned creature’s overthrow.
To make this public that obscured lies,
And more apparent vulgar secrecies,
To make this plain, harsh unto common wits,
Simplicity in common judgement sits.
This down-cast angel or declining saint
Is greedy Cron, when Cron makes his complaint,
For his poor creditors — fall’n to decay,
Being bankerupts — take heels and run away.
Then frantic Cron, galled to the very heart,
In some by-corner plays a devil’s part,
Repining at the loss of so much pelf,
And in a humour goes and hangs himself.
So of a saint, a devil Cron is made.
The devil lov’d Cron, and Cron the devil’s trade.
Thus may you see such angels often fall,
Making a working day a festival.
Now to the third point of his deity,
And that’s th’earth, thus reasons credulity:
Credulous Cron, Cron credulous in all,
Swears that his kingdom is in general.
As he is regent of this heaven and hell,
So of the earth all others he’ll expel.
The sky’s at his dispose, the earth his own,
And (if Cron please) all must be overthrown.
Cron, Cron, advise thee, Cron with the copper nose,
And be not ruled so much by false suppose,
Lest Cron’s professing holiness turn evil,
And of a false god prove a perfect devil.
I prithee, Cron, find out some other talk,
Make not the Burse a place for spirits to walk, —
For doubtless if thy damned lies take place,
Destruction follows; farewell, sacred grace.
Th’Exchange for goodly merchants is appointed;
‘Why not for me?’ says Cron, ‘and mine anointed?
Can merchants thrive and not the usurer nigh?
Can merchants live without my company?’
No, Cron helps all, and Cron hath help from none,
What others have is Cron’s, and Cron’s his own.
And Cron will hold his own, or’t shall go hard,
The devil will help him for a small reward.
The devil’s help — O ’tis a mighty thing!
If he but say the word, Cron is a king.
O then the devil is greater yet then he?
I thought as much — the devil would master be.
‘And reason too,’ saith Cron, ‘for what care I,
So I may live as God, and never die?’
Yea, golden Cron, death will make thee away,
And each dog, Cron, must have a dying day.
And with this resolution I bequeath thee
To God or to the devil, and so I leave thee.