To be dispos'd as you think meet; 995
Either for life, or death, or sale,
The gallows, or perpetual jail;
For one wink of your powerful eye
Must sentence him to live or die.
His fiddle is your proper purchase, 1000
Won in the service of the Churches;
And by your doom must be allow'd
To be, or be no more, a crowd.
For though success did not confer
Just title on the conqueror; 1005
Though dispensations were not strong
Conclusions, whether right or wrong,
Although out-goings did confirm,
And owning were but a mere term;
Yet as the wicked have no right 1010
To th' creature, though usurp'd by might,
The property is in the Saint,
From whom th' injuriously detain 't;
Of him they hold their luxuries,
Their dogs, their horses, whores, and dice, 1015
Their riots, revels, masks, delights,
Pimps, buffoons, fiddlers, parasites;
All which the Saints have title to,
And ought t' enjoy, if th' had their due.
What we take from them is no more 1020
Than what was our's by right before;
For we are their true landlords still,
And they our tenants but at will.
At this the Knight began to rouze,