O the’ too happy fathers of old,
Whoſe wealth was the plough, and the fold!
Baſe Luxury ne’re could deſtroy ’um,
Whoſe fare could ne’re ſurfeit, nor cloy ’um.
An Akorn, or Cheſnut at beſt
With them was an excellent feaſt.
Sack, and Sugar their throats ne’ver knew,
Nor their backs the Tyrian hue.
On th’ graſs they found Innocent dreams,
And Nectar in ſweet ſliding ſtreams.
Then th’ Pine ſerved only for ſhade,
And not for the Mariners trade.
The Chinoiſe had no traffick with Spain
For their trifles as ſtrange, and as vain.
Then men might ſleep whole in their skins
Not affrighted with warlike Dins:
And America thought not upon
The greedy, and mercileſs Don:
For who could have thought ’em worth killing,
When they had not one poore ſhilling
To pay for the wounds ſhould be made?
Then Warr was a pityful trade.
Would God that our Saints, and Wiſe men,
Would be but ſo Holy as Then!
But a Fire more Cruel than Hell,
Love of Wealth, is mixt with our Zele;
Oh, what was their bloudy Zele, who
Sought out the long hidden Peru,
And brought home that dangerous Ore
By the Murther of ſo many ſcore,
To make Pay for the Murthring of more?