The Fable of the Bees (Philosophy Study). Bernard Mandeville

herself was push’d by air:

      About her chariot, and behind,

      Were serjeants, bums of every kind, 275

      Tip-staffs, and all those officers,

      That squeeze a living out of tears.

      Though physic liv’d, while folks were ill,

      None would prescribe, but bees of skill,

      Which through the hive dispers’d so wide, 280

      That none of them had need to ride;

      Wav’d vain disputes, and strove to free

      The patients of their misery;

      Left drugs in cheating countries grown,

      And us’d the product of their own; 285

      Knowing the gods sent no disease,

      To nations without remedies.

      Their clergy rous’d from laziness,

      Laid not their charge on journey-bees;

      But serv’d themselves, exempt from vice, 290

      The gods with pray’r and sacrifice;

      All those, that were unfit, or knew,

      Their service might be spar’d, withdrew:

      Nor was their business for so many,

      (If th’ honest stand in need of any,) 295

      Few only with the high-priest staid,

      To whom the rest obedience paid:

      Himself employ’d in holy cares;

      Resign’d to others state-affairs.

      He chas’d no starv’ling from his door, 300

      Nor pinch’d the wages of the poor:

      But at his house the hungry’s fed,

The hireling finds unmeasur’d bread, The needy trav’ller board and bed.

      Among the king’s great ministers, 305

      And all th’ inferior officers,

      The change was great; for frugally

      They now liv’d on their salary:

      That a poor bee should ten times come

      To ask his due, a trifling sum, 310

      And by some well-hir’d clerk be made

      To give a crown, or ne’er be paid,

      Would now be call’d a downright cheat,

      Though formerly a perquisite.

      All places manag’d first by three, 315

      Who watch’d each other’s knavery

      And often for a fellow-feeling,

      Promoted one another’s stealing,

      Are happily supply’d by one,

      By which some thousands more are gone. 320

      No honour now could be content,

      To live and owe for what was spent;

      Liv’ries in brokers shops are hung,

      They part with coaches for a song;

      Sell stately horses by whole sets; 325

      And country-houses, to pay debts.

      Vain cost is shunn’d as much as fraud;

      They have no forces kept abroad;

      Laugh at th’ esteem of foreigners,

      And empty glory got by wars; 330

      They fight but for their country’s sake,

      When right or liberty’s at stake.

      Now mind the glorious hive, and see

      How honesty and trade agree.

      The show is gone, it thins apace; 335

      And looks with quite another face.

      For ’twas not only that they went,

      By whom vast sums were yearly spent;

      But multitudes that liv’d on them,

      Were daily forc’d to do the same. 340

      In vain to other trades they’d fly;

      All were o’er-stock’d accordingly.

      The price of land and houses falls;

      Mirac’lous palaces, whose walls,

      Like those of Thebes, were rais’d by play, 345

      Are to be let; while the once gay,

      Well-seated household gods would be

      More pleas’d to expire in flames, than see

      The mean inscription on the door

      Smile at the lofty ones they bore. 350

      The building trade is quite destroy’d,

      Artificers are not employ’d;

      No limner for his art is fam’d,

      Stone-cutters, carvers are not nam’d.

      Those, that remain’d, grown temp’rate, strive, 355

      Not how to spend, but how to live;

      And, when they paid their tavern score,

      Resolv’d to enter it no more:

      No vintner’s jilt in all the hive

      Could wear now cloth of gold, and thrive; 360

      Nor Torcol such vast sums advance,

      For Burgundy and Ortolans;

      The courtier’s gone that with his miss

      Supp’d at his house on Christmas peas;

      Spending as much in two hours stay, 365

      As keeps a troop of horse a day.

      The haughty Chloe, to live great,

      Had made her husband rob the state:

      But now she sells her furniture,

      Which th’ Indies had been ransack’d for; 370

      Contracts the expensive bill of fare,

      And wears her strong suit a whole year:

      The slight and fickle age is past;

      And clothes, as well as fashions, last.

      Weavers, that join’d rich silk with plate, 375

      And all the trades subordinate,

      Are gone; still peace and plenty reign,

      And every thing is cheap, though plain:

      Kind nature, free from gard’ners force,

      Allows all fruits in her own course; 380

      But rarities cannot be had,

      Where pains to get them are not paid.

      As pride and luxury decrease,

      So by degrees they leave the seas.

      Not merchants now, but companies 385

      Remove whole manufactories.

      All arts and crafts neglected lie;

      Content, the bane of industry,

      Makes ’em admire their homely store,

      And neither seek nor covet more. 390

      So few in the vast hive remain,

      The hundredth part they can’t maintain

      Against th’ insults of numerous foes;

      Whom yet they valiantly oppose:

      ’Till some well fenc’d retreat is found,