AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF TRADE.

BY A RELATION OF THE DECEASED.

London; printed in the Year 1698. Quarto, coutaining thirteen Pages.

A

WORTHY old dame,

Mother Trade was her name,

That had long lain in desperate state,
Perceiving at last

That all hopes were past,
Contentedly bends to her fate.

And, since she is gone,

For the good deeds sh'has done, As 'tis common in such like cases, We can sure do no less,

Than attend to her hearse,

With some marks of remorse on our faces.

There's her grand-daughter, Art,

Hath almost broke her heart,

For the loss of so faithful a friend:
She sits in her chair,

In the depth of despair,

And seems to draw near to'ards her end.

Industry, her sister,

When she left her, she kiss'd her,

And bid her for ever adieu;

I must seek out a place,

Where to alter the case,
For here, I find, it will not do.

Her cousin, Invention,

Seems too in declension,
And sits down by her, and cries,
Oh! What shall I do?

I have nought to pursue,
Except it be forging of lyes.

But what is still worse,
'Twould make a man curse,
Her landlord has seiz'd all she had;
He hath not allow'd

Her a coffin and shroud,

Good people, i'nt this very sad?

But the beadle is gone,

To see what can be done :

"Tis hard she should lie above ground;

And yonder he comes,

A biting his thumbs ;

I'm afraid there's no help to be found.

Then come, Master Beadle,
Pray how look the people?
What means this mighty dejection ?

Why, sir, the folk look,

Like our constable's book,

That hath been these three years in collection.

I'm afraid, Master Blue-coat,

That you are no true coat, For all you look so precisely;

Why sure they will give,

Since they wou'dn't let her live,
Some small thing to bury her wisely.

Come, come, you must out,
And try t'other bout,

And, pray, put the thing to the godly.
What! Must the good dame

Lie unbury'd? For shame;
This all o'er the world will look odly.

Why, sir, if you'd hear me,
You'd instantly clear me,

I've been with abundance already;

As God knows my heart,

I've acted my part,

And was always to serve her most ready.

I have been with the merchant, Who, you know, is an arch one, As also with the baker and brewer; I have been with the banker,

And with him that makes th' anchor,

With the taylor, and almost all that knew her

Then pardon my passion,

"Twas my zeal for my nation,

That urg'd me a little too fast :

Come, prithee, go on,

Let me know man by man,

What betwixt you and each of them pass'd.

For the merchant then, first,

When I told him he curs'd,

And swore he expected it long:

I'll be moving, says he,

No, faith, they shall see

I'll ne'er stay to starve with the throng.

My debts lay an embargo,

Or I'd be my own cargo,
And sail to the land of Mogul;

But, when a man breaks,
His vessel then leaks,

And 'tis danger to swim in the hull.

But I'll sell what I've got, land,
And e'en go to Scotland,

I'll venture their itch and their lice;
"Tis better, you know,

Master Beadle, to go,

Than to stay here to be eat up with mice.

And now, for to give,

I have nought, as I live,

I was never so poor in my life
The times are so dead,

I can hardly get bread

e;

For myself, my children, and wife.

Next I went to the baker,
And he was a Quaker,

But a little inclin'd to the Papist;

When I told him our loss,

He made on him a cross,

And swore and damn'd like an Atheist.

Says he, friend, be gone,

For money I've none,

Go, prithee don't trouble my shop;
Don't tell me o'the dead,

I must live by my bread,

And so I was forc'd for to 'lope.

When I came out o'the door,
Says I, you son of a whore,

By your forestalling, regrating, and cheating,
You have got an estate,

And that makes you prate,

Take notice I owe you a beating.

I went hence to the brewer,
And there I thought sure

I should meet with a little relief;
But, faith, when I come,
He look'd so damn'd grum,
I said nothing, but stood like a thief.

VOL. X.

It seems 'twas the day

He was doom'd to go pay, Upon ale and beer, the excise: Betwixt taxes and malt,

Says he, I don't get salt,

And so should lay down, were I wise.

At length I grew bold,

And went to him, and told The long and short of the thing; His reply was, don't tease me, Pray friend, I'd be easy,

Imust give not to her, but the king,

Then next with the banker

I soon cast my anchor,

And told him the state of the dame;

His answer was short,

All he had lay at court,

And bid me return whence I came,

To th' anchor-smith next,
Whom I found sadly vex'd,

At the news of a merchant just broke;
I ask'd him for something,

Who stood like a dumb thing,

At last scratch'd his head, and thus spoke:

Friend, did you but know,

You'd ne'er press me so, And out he lugs a long scroul; As God is to save me,

"Twixt merchants and navy, I'm utterly ruin'd by my soul.

Thence I trudg'd to the taylor, That wretch did bewail her, But swore he had never a souse; If I had it, said he,

You shou'd have something of me, But, faith, I'm scarce worth a louse.

A pox take all the beaus,

They must have their new cloaths; I abhor those fools in the fashion: Your knights, 'squires, and lords, That won't keep their words.

By heavens, wou'd there was none in the nation.

I went next to the drapers,

Found their boys cutting capers,

With abundance of fiddles and flutes;

But, when I ask'd them for money,
They stood staring upon me,

As though they'd been so many mutes.

Said I, where's your master?
So I told the disaster;

To which answers one of the wisest,
Sir, he, seldom comes here,
If he does, he with beer,
In a dreadful manner, disguis'd is.

From the draper of linnen,
(Which they sell, and then sin in)
I went to their brother of wooll:
But he gave me a joke,
And said that his poke
Was as empty as his skull.

To the next that I went, Was old sir Cent. per cent. * That was soundly enrich'd by her art; His reply was in short,

I have found better sport,

And don't value her death of a fart.

Being thus in quandary,

I met apothecary,

And told him the full of the matter;

He call'd me aside,

And ask'd, when she dy'd,

And withal, what doctors came at her.

I'm afraid, with their blisters,
Their purges and clysters,

And issues in every part,
They weaken'd her so much,
She could not stand the touch,
I'm afraid on't with all my heart.

If her head had been shav'd,
She might have been sav'd,
Had she taken a vomit withal;
But, if she's dead, 'tis in vain
Any more to complain,
Here's a couple of pence, 'tis my all,

I march'd next to the pressers,
And from him to the mercers,

• An usurer.