They tell me I'm mad—that to cells and straw bedding

They tell me I'm mad—that to cells and straw bedding
In my crack-brain'd condition 'twere fittest to hie;
Thus sland'rous reports at each minute are spreading:
In this world there are thousands far madder than I!
I'd a friend I betray'd, and a mistress I slighted,
I had power, and I made my dependants my tools:
In the misery of others I daily delighted;
And this they call madness—poor ignorant fools!
Why vices like these are but common disasters,
Decreed to try patience, by wise nature's law;
Come join then the throng, 'tis a mad world my masters,
On down some are frantic, and some upon straw.

For the loaves and the fishes eternally craving,
Now blessing their stars, now arraigning their fate,
Now fawning, now threat'ning, now sighing, now raving,
What but madmen inhabit that bedlam the state?
At two to high change but transport a mere stranger,
Where to cunning superior the subtle Jew yields,
Where always, though safe, the poor nation's in danger,
He would instantly ask if it was not Moorfields.
Is it madness to say then that these are the castors
On which the earth rolls by immutable law?
Come on, join the throng, 'tis a mad world my masters,
On down some are frantic, and some upon straw.

See that miser who deaf to the soft calls of nature,
And flint to the core, will unkindly refuse,
Though the trifle were life to a poor fellow creature,
To broach that vile hoard he wants spirit to use:
Not grieved for his soul, but his cash, see him dying,
And then see his heir at Hilarity's board,
The curmudgeon lies safe, while his guineas are flying,
For spendthrifts to lavish, and misers to hoard.
Why vices like these, &c.