Thus hell run on two hours in length, till he
Spin out a curse long as the Litany;
Till heaven has scarce a judgment left in store
For him to wish, deserve, or suffer more.
There are, who disavow all Providence,
And think the world is only steered by chance;
Make God at best an idle looker on,
A lazy monarch lolling in his throne,
Who his affairs does neither mind, nor know,
But leaves them all at random here below;
And such at every foot themselves will damn,
And oaths no more than common breath esteem;
No shame, nor loss of ears, can frighten these,
Were every street a grove of pillories.
Others there be, that own a God, and fear
His vengeance to ensue, and yet forswear:
Thus to himself, says one, ’Let Heaven decree
What doom soe'er, its pleasure will, of me;
Strike me with blindness, palsies, leprosies,
Plague, pox, consumption, all the maladies
Of both the Spittles;[1] so I get my prize
And hold it sure; I'll suffer these, and more;
All plagues are light to that of being poor.
There's not a begging cripple in the streets,
(Unless he with his limbs has lost his wits,
And is grown fit for Bedlam) but no doubt
To have his wealth would have the rich man's gout.
Grant Heaven's vengeance heavy be; what though?
The heaviest things move slowest still we know;
And, if it punish all that guilty be,
'Twill be an age before it come to me.
God, too, is merciful, as well as just;
Therefore I'll rather his forgiveness trust,
Than live despised and poor, as thus I must;
I'll try and hope he's more a gentleman
Than for such trivial things as these, to damn.
- ↑ The hospitals of St. Thomas in Southwark, and St. Bartholomew in West Smithfield.
