Book III, 82: On ANANIAS

The Land was his: The land was his, alone;
'Twas sold, And now the Money was his owne:
The powre remain'd in the Possessors hand,
To keepe his money, or have kept his Land:
But once devoted to the Churches good,
And then conceald, it cost his life, his blood:
If those that give, may not resume agin,
Without a Punishment, without a Sin,
What shall become of those, whose unjust power
Dispoyles the widdowed Temple of her Dower:
Who take her Profits, and in stead of giving
Encrease to her revenues, make a living
Vpon her Ruines, growing plump and full
Vpon her Wants, being cloathed in her Wooll;
While she sustains th'extremes of cold and hunger,
To pamper up the fat Advousion-monger;
Who thrust their Flesh-hooks in their thristy Pot,
And only leave her what they value not:
The whilst her sacred Priests, that dayly tread
Their slighted Corne, must begge their early Bread;
Or else, be forc'd to purchase easie shares
With the deare price of their ungranted Prayres:
Let such turne backe their sacrilegious eyes,
And see how breathlesse Ananias lyes:
Behold the Wages that his sin procures,
That was a Mole-hill, to these Alpes of yours:
He tooke not from the Church: Did but conceale
Some part he gave; But your false fingers steale
Her maine Inheritance, her owne Possession;
His was but bare deceipt, yours bold Oppression:
O, if no lesse then the first death was due
To him, what death d'ye think's prepar'd for you?
So often as your pamper'd Eyes shall looke
On your Estates, thinke on the Flying Booke.