PLUTUS

That I prevent the message of the gods Thus with my haste, and not attend their summons, Which ought in Justice call me to the place I now require of Right, is not alone To show the just precedence that I hold Before all earthly, next the immortal Powers; But to exclude the hope of partial Grace In all Pretenders, who, since I descend To equal trial, must by my example, Waving your favour, claim by sole Desert. If Virtue must inherit, she's my slave; I led her captive in a golden chain, About the world: She takes her Form and Being From my creation; and those barren seeds That drop from Heaven, if I not cherish them With my distilling dews, and fotive heat, They know no vegetation; but exposed To blasting winds of freezing Poverty, Or not shoot forth at all, or budding, wither: Should I proclaim the daily sacrifice Brought to my Temples by the toiling rout, Not of the fat and gore of abject Beasts, But human sweat, and blood poured on my Altars, I might provoke the envy of the gods. Turn but your eyes and mark the busy world, Climbing steep Mountains for the sparkling stone, Piereing the Centre for the shining Over, And the Ocean's bosom to rake pearly sands, Crossing the torrid and the frozen Zones, amidst Rocks and swallowing Gulfs, for gainful trade, And though opposing swords, fire, murdering Canon, Scaling the walled Town for precious spoils: Plant in the passage to your heavenly seats, These horrid dangers, and then see who dares Advance his desperate foot; yet am I sought, And oft in vain, through these, and greater hazards; I could discover how your Deities Are for my sake sleighted, despised, abused, Your Temples, Shrines, Altars, and Images Uncovered, rifled, robbed, and disarrayed By sacrilegious hands: yet is this treasure To the golden Mountain, where I fit adored With superstitious solemn rights conveyed, And becomes sacred there, the sordid wretch Not daring touch the consecrated Over, Or with profane hands lessen the bright heap; But this might draw your anger down on mortals For rendering me the homage endue to you: Yet what is said may well express my power Too great for Earth, and only fit for Heaven. Now, for you pastime, view the naked root, Which in the dirty earth, and base mould drowned, Sends forth this precious Plant, and golden fruit. You lusty Swains, that to your grazing flocks Pipe amorous Roundelays; you toiling Hinds, That barbe the fields, and to your merry Teams Whistle your passion; and you mining Moles, That in the bowels of your mother-Earth Dwell the eternal burden of her womb, Cease from your labours, when Wealth bids you play, Sing, dance, and keep a cheerful holiday.