“What makes a knave a child of God, And one of us?” “A livelihood.” “What renders beating out of brains, And murder, godliness?” “Great gains.” “What’s tender conscience?” “’Tis a botch That will not bear the gentlest touch; But, breaking out, despatches more Than th’ epidemical’st plague-sore.” “What makes y’ incroach upon our trade, And damn all others?” “To be paid.” “What’s orthodox and true believing Against a conscience?” “A good living.” “What makes rebelling against kings A good old cause?” “Administ’rings.” “What makes all doctrines plain and clear?” “About two hundred pounds a-year.” “And that which was proved true before, Prove false again?” “Two hundred more.” “What makes the breaking of all oaths A holy duty?” “Food and clothes.” “What laws and freedom, persecution?” “Being out of power, and contribution.” “What makes a church a den of thieves?” “A dean and chapter, and white sleeves.” “And what would serve, if those were gone, To make it orthodox?” “Our own.” “What makes morality a crime, The most notorious of the time-- Morality, which both the saints And wicked too cry out against?” “’Cause grace and virtue are within Prohibited degrees of kin; And therefore no true saint allows They shall be suffered to espouse.” _DESCRIPTION OF HOLLAND_ A country that draws fifty foot of water, In which men live as in the hold of Nature, And when the sea does in upon them break, And drowns a province, does but spring a leak; That always ply the pump, and never think They can be safe but at the rate they stink; They live as if they had been run aground, And, when they die, are cast away and drowned; That dwell in ships, like swarms of rats, and prey Upon the goods all nations’ fleets convey; And when their merchants are blown up and crackt, Whole towns are cast away in storms, and wreckt; That feed, like cannibals, on other fishes, And serve their cousin-germans up in dishes: A land that rides at anchor, and is moored, In which they do not live, but go aboard. _POETS_ It is not poetry that makes men poor; For few do write that were not so before; And those that have writ best, had they been rich, Had ne’er been clapp’d with a poetic itch; Had loved their ease too well to take the pains To undergo that drudgery of brains; But, being for all other trades unfit, Only t’ avoid being idle, set up wit. _PUFFING_