To The Ingratefvll Poem by John Andrewes

Is't long of thy short memorie, that thou
yeeld'st not due thanks, where thou the same do'st owe?
Alas, good man; why do'st thou not forget
to begge as well? or dost thou thinke it fit
For men to craue thy thankes; because to thee
vnask't their fauours came not? can there be
Excuse allow'd for such a fault? O no;
But contrarie, no Tyrants lawe can show
A torture too seuere for such an Ill:
Looke how an ore-charg'd peece breaking doth kill
The gazers on, and yet the Gunner stand
not hurt at all, though from his fatall hand
Death tooke his flight; so doth thy want of Art
rightly to vse a friend, make many smart
And suffer too vniustly: For, thy fault
makes honest hearts (with no such basenesse fraught)
Suspected; which approues the Prouerbe true
men scalt with hot, cold water do esche we.
The guiltlesse seruants of that Carmelite
inurbane foole, who did with ill requite
Fauours receiv'd) had been to death pursude
(but for his wife) for his Ingratitude.
Art thou reliev'd in want, and canst forget
(vnworthy wretch) what gracious hand did set
Thy misry free? doost thinke ther's nothing more
to be perform'd, when of thy leaprous sore
Of Pouerty thou'rt cur'd; no thankes, no praise,
rendred to him which chang'd thy painfull daies
To times of ease? more grieuous is thy sore
(through thy neglect) by much then 'twas before.
Thine outward sence then only felt the smart;
but now it sticks so close to thy false heart,
(And vlc'ringly'th in thy corrupted bloud)
that not from thence proceedes a thought that's good.
If by sinister meanes thou hast obtain'd
what thou inioy'st, thou canst not say 'tis gain'd.
By wealth that's purchast with the losse of Fame,
men do growe rich in nothing else but shame:
In whom, desert, no thankfulnesse doth moue,
they doe no lesse then cheate men of their loue.
Thou with a hollow heart, false, stopp'd within,
on thy best friends wilt play, so thou mai'st win:
Gaine sauours well to thy misiudging sence,
whose facultie can easily dispence
With any Stocke, with any ground, or dung
(bee't ne're so base, or vild for any tongue
But thine to touch) from whence it doth proceede,
though in thy bosome with the same doth breed
Hatefull Ingratitude; whose brasen brow
(bold Impe of Impudence) will not allow
A blush to touch it. I confesse my fault
from misconstruction came, in that I thought
Thou had'st been man, aswell in deed, as Name,
which title did to thee, when thou to shame.