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 filthy.

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 color 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.