William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Restoration Verse. 1910.
A South Sea BalladEdward Ward (16671731)
I
And near that pile an Alley,
Where merry crowds for riches toil,
And wisdom stoops to folly.
Here, sad and joyful, high and low,
Court Fortune for her graces;
And as she smiles or frowns, they show
Their gestures and grimaces.
Among our lords the rabble;
To buy and sell, to see and hear
The Jews and Gentiles squabble.
Here, crafty Courtiers are too wise
For those who trust to fortune;
They see the cheat with clearer eyes,
Who peep behind the curtain.
Because they think, and drink not;
But headlongs are our thriving fools,
Who only drink, and think not.
The lucky rogues like spaniel dogs,
Leap into South Sea water;
And there they fish for golden frogs,
Nor caring what comes after.
Could turn a brazen kettle,
Or leaden cistern into gold;
That noble tempting metal.
But (if it here may be allowed,
To bring in great with small things)
Our cunning South Sea like a god,
Turns nothing into all things.
Or commerce with our neighbours;
Our Constitution is in health,
And riches crown our labours.
Our South Sea ships have golden shrouds,
They bring us wealth, ’tis granted:
But lodge their treasure in the clouds,
To hide it till it’s wanted.
Thou only happy nation!
So oddly rich, so madly great,
Since Bubbles came in fashion.
Successful rakes exert their pride,
And count their airy millions;
Whilst homely drabs in coaches ride,
Brought up to Town on pillions.
Grow fat with South Sea diet;
Young rattles and unthinking fools
Are those that flourish by it.
Old musty jades, and pushing blades,
Who’ve least consideration,
Grow rich apace; while wiser heads
Are struck with admiration.
Lay crushed beneath disasters,
Are now, by Stock, brought into play,
And made our lords and masters.
But should our South Sea Babel fall,
What numbers would be frowning;
The losers then must ease their gall
By hanging, or by drowning.
Our Stocks are worth in value:
But neither lie in goods, or lands,
Or money, let me tell ye.
Yet though our foreign trade is lost,
Of mighty wealth we vapour;
When all the riches that we boast
Consist of scraps of paper.