Александр Бром (Alexander Brome)

The New Gentry

1.

ENough for shame! leave off this fooling;
Prithee cringe no more,
Nor admire the ill-gotten store
Of the upstart Mushromes of our Nation,
With blind and groundless adoration;
If thy nature still wants schooling,
As thou dost grow old, grow wise,
For age can easily advise,
And make thee know,
'Tis only such as thou
That bring and keep both fools and knaves in fashion.

2.

We make each other proud and knavish,
For where ever we
Great abundance chance to see,
There we fling both power and honour,
As if wealth were the only donour;
And our natures are so slavish,
That we tamely will submit,
All our reason, strength, and wit;
And pay, and pray
Great men in power, that they
Will take our Liberty and trample on her.

3.

What is't makes all men so much covet,
Toyling more and more,
To increase a needless store;
So violently tugg and hall for't,
Venturing body and soul and all for't?
The rich are flatter'd▪ and they love it;
We obey their shalls and musts;
And to gratifie their lusts,
We madly strive
Who first our selves shall give,
And all that is ours to them, if they'l but call for't▪

4.

If we did take no notice of them,
Like not, nor applaud
Their spoyls obtain'd by force and fraud;
But would live content and jolly,
Laughing at their painful folly,
And would neither fear nor love them:
Underneath their loads, they'ld groan,
Or with shame would throw them down;
And live as free
From needless cares as we:
Slight pomp and wealth, that makes men melancholly.

5.

Pray what are all these gaudy bubbles
That so boast and rant,
Of what they think they have, but ha'nt?
But men that had the luck of living,
And made others fall their thriving;
Hail-stones got in storms of troubles:
That for valour are as fit
For Knights, as to be Squires for wit,
Inspir'd with pride,
Did what good men defi'd,
Grown great by Protean turning and conniving.

6.

That man that would have me adore him,
With my heart, he must
Be noble, pow'rful, wise, and just,
And improve his parts and power
To support, not to devour,
Nor pride; nor lust, must e'r rule o'r him.
Th' bug-bear greatness without this,
An idle, empty pageant is:
He that doth rise,
And is not good and wise,
I honour not, but pity and deplore him.

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