Page:Poetical Works of John Oldham.djvu/193

Nor would you think it much in Africa,
If you great lips and short flat noses saw,
Because 'tis so by nature of each place,
And, therefore, there for no strange things they pass.
In lands where pigmies are, to see a crane
(As kites do chickens here) sweep up a man
In armour dad, with us would make a show,
And serve to entertain at Bartholomew ;
Yet there it goes for no great prodigy,
Where the whole nation is but one foot high.
Then why, fond man, should you so much admire,
Since knave is of our growth, and common here?
'But must such perjury escape,' say you,
’And shall it ever thus unpunished go?'
Grant he were dragged to jail this very hour,
To starve, and rot; suppose it in your power
To rack and torture him all kinds of ways,
To hang, or bum, or kill him, as you please;
(And what would your revenge itself have more?)
Yet this, all this would not your cash restore;
And where would be the comfort, where the good,
If you could wash your hands in's reeking blood?
’But, oh, revenge more sweet than life!' 'Tis true,
So the unthinking say, and the mad crew
Of hectoring blades, who for slight cause, or none,
At every turn are into passion blown,
Whom the least trifles with revenge inspire,
And at each spark, like gunpowder, take fire;
These unprovoked kill the next man they meet,
For being so saucy as to walk the street;
And at the summons of each tiny drab,
Cry, ’Damme! Satisfaction!' draw, and stab.
Not so of old, the mild good Socrates,
(Who showed how high without the help of grace,
Well cultivated nature might be wrought)
He a more noble way of suffering taught,
And, though he guiltless drank the poisonous dose,
Ne'er wished a drop to his accusing foes.