Daniel Defoe: Political Writings (Including The True-Born Englishman, An Essay upon Projects, The Complete English Tradesman & The Biography of the Author). Даниэль Дефо

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СКАЧАТЬ He knows the genius and the inclination,

       And matches proper sins for ev’ry nation.

       He needs no standing army government;

       He always rules us by our own consent:

       His laws are easy, and his gentle sway

       Makes it exceeding pleasant to obey.

       The list of his vicegerents and commanders,

       Out-does your Cæsars, or your Alexanders.

       They never fail of his infernal aid,

       And he’s as certain ne’er to be betray’d.

       Thro’ all the world they spread his vast command,

       And death’s eternal empire is maintain’d.

       They rule so politicly and so well,

       As if they were Lords Justices of hell;

       Duly divided to debauch mankind,

       And plant infernal dictates in his mind.

      Pride, the first peer, and president of hell,

       To his share, Spain, the largest province fell.

       The subtle Prince thought fittest to bestow

       On these the golden mines of Mexico,

       With all the silver mountains of Peru;

       Wealth which in wise hands would the world undo;

       Because he knew their genius was such,

       Too lazy and too haughty to be rich:

       So proud a people, so above their fate,

       That, if reduced to beg, they’ll beg in state:

       Lavish of money, to be counted brave,

       And proudly starve, because they scorn to save;

       Never was nation in the world before,

       So very rich, and yet so very poor.

      Lust chose the torrid zone of Italy,

       Where blood ferments in rapes and sodomy:

       Where swelling veins o’erflow with living streams,

       With heat impregnate from Vesuvian flames;

       Whose flowing sulphur forms infernal lakes,

       And human body of the soil partakes.

       There nature ever burns with hot desires,

       Fann’d with luxuriant air from subterranean fires:

       Here undisturbed, in floods of scalding lust,

       Th’ infernal king reigns with infernal gust.

      Drunkenness, the darling favourite of hell,

       Chose Germany to rule; and rules so well,

       No subjects more obsequiously obey,

       None please so well, or are so pleased as they;

       The cunning artist manages so well,

       He lets them bow to heav’n, and drink to hell.

       If but to wine and him they homage pay,

       He cares not to what deity they pray;

       What god they worship most, or in what way.

       Whether by Luther, Calvin, or by Rome,

       They sail for heaven, by wine he steers them home.

      Ungovern’d passion settled first in France,

       Where mankind lives in haste, and thrives by chance;

       A dancing nation, fickle and untrue,

       Have oft undone themselves, and others too;

       Prompt the infernal dictates to obey,

       And in hell’s favour none more great than they.

      The pagan world he blindly leads away,

       And personally rules with arbitrary sway:

       The mask thrown off, plain devil, his title stands;

       And what elsewhere he tempts, he there commands;

       There, with full gust, th’ ambition of his mind,

       Governs, as he of old in heaven design’d:

       Worshipp’d as God, his Paynim altars smoke,

       Imbrued with blood of those that him invoke.

      The rest by deputies he rules so well,

       And plants the distant colonies of hell;

       By them his secret power he firm maintains,

       And binds the world in his infernal chains.

      By zeal the Irish, and the Russ by folly,

       Fury the Dane, the Swede by melancholy;

       By stupid ignorance, the Muscovite;

       The Chinese, by a child of hell, call’d wit;

       Wealth makes the Persian too effeminate;

       And poverty the Tartar desperate:

       The Turks and Moors, by Mah’met he subdues;

       And God has given him leave to rule the Jews:

       Rage rules the Portuguese, and fraud the Scotch;

       Revenge the Pole, and avarice the Dutch.

      Satire, be kind, and draw a silent veil,

       Thy native England’s vices to conceal:

       Or, if that task’s impossible to do,

       At least be just, and show her virtues too;

       Too great the first, alas! the last too few.

      England, unknown, as yet unpeopled lay —

       Happy, had she remain’d so to this day,

       And still to ev’ry nation been a prey.

       Her open harbours, and her fertile plains,

       The merchant’s glory these, and those the swain’s,

       To ev’ry barbarous nation have betray’d her;

       СКАЧАТЬ