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.