On ink

I am jet black, as you may see,

The son of pitch and gloomy night:

Yet all that know me will agree,

I'm dead except I live in light.

Sometimes in panegyric high,

Like lofty Pindar, I can soar;

And raise a virgin to the sky,

Or sink her to a pocky whore.

My blood this day is very sweet,

To-morrow of a bitter juice;

Like milk, 'tis cried about the street,

And so applied to different use.

Most wondrous is my magic power:

For with one colour I can paint;

I'll make the devil a saint this hour,

Next make a devil of a saint.

Through distant regions I can fly,

Provide me but with paper wings;

And fairly show a reason why

There should be quarrels among kings:

And, after all, you'll think it odd,

When learned doctors will dispute,

That I should point the word of God,

And show where they can best confute.

Let lawyers bawl and strain their throats:

'Tis I that must the lands convey,

And strip their clients to their coats;

Nay, give their very souls away.