He heard old Screwby oft supply'd the needs
Of broken rakes, who had good title deeds.
So he bunch'd up two packets, like in shape,
Ty'd in blue paper with a silken tape :
One deeds of lands, seven hundred pounds a year,
The other parchments old and cancell'd were.
The genuine packet he to Screwby took,
Who hem'd and haw'd, and thro' the whole did look
He lik'd the ware — and after coughing twice,
With twang of nose, he query'd thus o'th' price.
And pray, my lord, what may you
want on these?
One thousand pounds, old father, if you please ;
And in the morning
this day week, at nine,
A thousand more — security
is thine.
My lord — a mortgage — mortgages I want,
Things dubious
grow ; — and money's wondrous scan :
On these fair
terms, a thousand down I'll
lay,
And the remainder
on the
mention'd day.
So Screwby counts the cash ; the deeds secures
My lord wheels
off to gambling, rakes, and whores.
Time on his wings brings the appointed
day,
On which his lordship doth the visit pay ;
Who in his pocket takes
the feigned deeds,
Besides the thousand
which his
project needs.
The usual compliments no sooner past,
My lord, in bustle,
seem'd to be in haste :
Come, Mr. Screwby — come, the writings soon,
And
let me see if honesty
be done.
Old Screwby then lays down the mortgage deeds ;
His lordship dams
each article he reads,
And throws them down : — old Screwby all
aghast,
Clearing
his weasand,
thus broke out at last.
My lord, there's no man — no man, on my word,
Will
lend his cash ; — and not be sure, my lord.
Why
dam your Surety: these I'll never sign ;
Hero take your trash; — and
give me what is mine.
Old Screwby scratching both his elbows, said,
My
lord, for writings five pounds must be paid.
Here 'tis ; but give
me first of all
what's mine
;
Thou hast the
cash, and mortgage deeds are thine.
But they're not signed, and so not worth a straw;
Nor ever shall be whilst my breath I draw.
My lord took up, and
found the writings
right,
And
tied them up
again in Screwby's sight,
And in his pocket whore th' sham writings
lay,
He put them close, and coolly bad — good-day.
Griev'd to the soul, old Screwby sore did fret,
That
he vou'd not this precious morsel get:
His stick he takes — his greasy
hat put
o'er
His
brown-white wig,
and limp'd hard out of door
After his lordship : Ho — my lord — ho
lo !
Pray what's to do,
old father grey-beard now?
If''t please you, Sir, what must I give in hand,
For
you to sign, and let this bargain stand?
Two hundred pounds — : besides
two thousand down,
And then I'll sign, — the mortgage deeds your own.
Come back, my lord — : for witnesses
In send,
Sign you and seal, and so this job we'll end.
Gripe now in stretched bags of solid sounds,
On
table set twenty-two hundred pounds.
His lordship throws the mimic
writings down,
And
thus each face
has banish'd ev'ry frown.
The mortgage deeds are executed fair,
Gripe
put's th' old parchments in his bosom bare ;
Whilst solid gold my
lord
lugs to his chaise,
And makes it fly
'mongst courtiers,
whores, and plays.
The new-made deeds so fill'd old Screwby's head,
That
the false writings never once were read
'Till two months past;
and then he
nearly scans
The shou'd-be
deeds of all the mortgag'd lands.
When lo ! old leases, with
determin'd dates ;
Some cancell'd bonds ; parchments of law debates,
Salutes
with wonder his old
winking eyes ;
Which made him start from chair in great suiprize
!
His piss-burnt wig he
wirls upon the ground,
And stamping on't, he wildly stares
around !
What — must our nobles cheat the poor — quo'
he,
And still be screen'd
from stocks,
and pillory?
Must thus the king give titles to the great,
With power to ruin,
murder, rob,
and cheat?
Must some pack'd rogues thus plunder all the rest,
And when we're
bankrupts, laugh it into jest?
But I'll have right ; — or
stab
the titled knave,
And sweetly go reveng'd unto my grave.
Old Screwby now is close upon the scent,
In every
place his lordship did frequent.
Some knew the man ; — some knew
he lov'd a whore;
But
all affirm'd
he dy'd six
weeks before.
At last he meets two friends, who testify'd
He very fairly in a
duel dy'd.
Gripe, full to th' throat, his grief in sighs
burst o'er :
Nor ever thought of his remaining store.
For he by
squeezing rich and poor,
we find,
Full
thirty thousand still had left behind :
But yet so hanker'd
after what was gone,
He
must have that, or else he would have none :
For this lost
sheep was such a fatal blow,
He'd even fetch it from the shades
below.
This
was resolv'd — :
Tears flow'd
for loss of pelf:
He hastens home, and there ho hangs
himself !
Calm reason judge ; give sentence if thou can,
Which
murder'd most the character of man !
|
