Crimes are not punish’d ’cause they’re crimes, But cause they’re low and little: Mean men for mean faults in these times Make satisfaction to tittle; While those in office and in power Boldly the underlings devour, Our cobweb laws can’t hold ’em; They sell for many a thousand crown Things which were never yet their own, And this is law and custom grown, ’Cause those do judge who sold ’em. Brothers still with brothers brawl, And for trifles sue ’em; For two pronouns that spoil all Contentious _meum_ and _tuum_. The wary lawyer buys and builds While the client sells his fields To sacrifice his fury; And when he thinks t’ obtain his right, He’s baffled off or beaten quite By the judge’s will, or lawyer’s slight, Or ignorance of the jury. See the tradesman how he thrives With perpetual trouble: How he cheats and how he strives, His estate t’ enlarge and double; Extort, oppress, grind and encroach, To be a squire and keep a coach, And to be one o’ th’ quorum; Who may with’s brother-worships sit, And judge without law, fear, or wit, Poor petty thieves, that nothing get, And yet are brought before ’em. And his way to get all this Is mere dissimulation; No factious lecture does he miss, And ’scape no schism that’s in fashion: But with short hair and shining shoes, He with two pens and note-book goes, And winks and writes at random; Thence with short meal and tedious grace, In a loud tone and public place, Sings wisdom’s hymns, that trot and pace As if Goliah scann’d ’em. But when Death begins his threats, And his conscience struggles To call to mind his former cheats, Then at Heaven he turns and juggles: And out of all’s ill-gotten store He gives a dribbling to the poor; An hospital or school-house; And the suborn’d priest for his hire Quite frees him from th’ infernal fire, And places him in th’ angel’s quire: Thus these Jack-puddings fool us! All he gets by’s pains i’ th’ close, Is, that he dy’d worth so much; Which he on’s doubtful seed bestows, That neither care nor know much: Then fortune’s favourite, his heir, Bred base and ignorant and bare, Is blown up like a bubble: Who wondering at’s own sudden rise, By pride, simplicity, and vice, Falls to his sports, drink, drabs, and dice, And make all fly like stubble. And the Church, the other twin, Whose mad zeal enraged us, Is not purified a pin By all those broils in which th’ engaged us: We our wives turn’d out of doors, And took in concubines and whores, To make an alteration; Our pulpitors are proud and bold, They their own wills and factions hold, And sell salvation still for gold, And here’s our _reformation_!