[p. 118] Not for as many cubic fathoms of best Indies lignum vitaea
as ’ld stock us till we re-sheave the blocks for master-bargees plying the Styx.
Not for a pickin’ of all the bonded stuffs passed over the quays in a full working week between the Bridge and Battlebridge Stairs1
and there’s a tidy jorumb
to pile a mint in sterling—to rig out Ann my wife like Suky Tawdry.c
Not at the price of half the freights, felled of the living wood, a lent o’ tides, brings to all the wharves, from here round to the Royal Vi’t’lin’, when Proserpine unbinds the Baltic.2
Not if he signed me fair a note of hand for all the gold on his fleece.d
Nor for this port’s authorities
and I’m a citizen.
Not if the Trinity Brethren
and Clemens himself3
stood caps in hand for a month of Sundays
and them I must needs respect.
Not if the Holy Ghost made ready to blow on his mainsail.
Nor for a boozed Murphy’s bull in curial-cursive and leadede from the scarlet pontiff o’ the West.
And, as for next Thor’s Day’s night tide
tell the Wop, to-go-to