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.