Alexander Brome (Александр Бром)
The Polititian
Written in 1649. 1. WHat madness is't for him that's wise, To be so much self-hating? Himself and his to sacrifice, By medling still with things too high, That don't concern, but gratifie His letchery of prating. What is't to us who's in the ruling power? While they protect, we're bound to obey, But longer not an hour. 2. Nature made all alike at first, But men that fram'd this fiddle Of government, made best and worst, And high and low, like various strings, Each man his several ditty sings, To tune this state down diddle. In this grand wheel the world, we're spokes made all, But that it may still keep its round, Some mount while others fall. 3. The blinded Ruler that by night, Sits with his host of Bill-men, With their chalk'd weapons, that affright The wondring clown that haps to view His Worship, and his Gowned crew, As if they sate to Kill men. Speak him but fair, he'l let you freely go: And those that on the high rope dance, Will do the same trick too. 4. I'll ne'r admire That fatuous fire, That is not what it seems, For those, that now to us seem higher: Like painted bubbles blown i'th air, By boyes, seem glorious and fair, 'Tis but in boyes esteems. Rule of its self's a toyl and none would bear it, But that 'twixt pride and avarice, And close revenge they'l share it. 5. Since all the world is but a stage, And every man a player; They're fools that lives or states engage; Let's act and juggle as others do, Keep what's our own, get others to; Play whiffler clown or Maior: For he that sticks to what his heart calls just, Becomes a sacrifice and prey To the prosperous whirlegigs lust. 6. Each wise man first best loves himself, Lives close, thinks and obeys; Makes not his soul a slave to's pelf; Nor idly squanders it away, To cram their mawes that taxes lay, On what he does, or sayes; For those grand cords that man to man do twist, Now are not honesty and love But self and interest.
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