« AnteriorContinua »
Where there are none, it stands erect,
The rod of Hermes was renown'd
Sid's rod was slender, white, and tall,
Sid's brethren of the conjuring tribe,
• Supposed to allude to the Union.
Where spirits throng'd with hideous din,
Achilles' fceptre was of wood,
Dear Sid, then, why wert thou so mad
• An eminent toyman in Fleet-street.
Or made it a Newmarket * switch,
ATLAS; OR, THE MINISTER OF STATE.
LORD TREASURER OXFORD.
A TLAS, we read in ancient song,
Was so exceeding tall and strong,
Yet Hercules was not so strong,
Great statesmen are in this condition And Atlas is a politician, A premier minister of state ; Alcides one of second rate. • Lor' Godolphin is satirized by Mr. Pope for a strong attachmcnt . e curf. See his Morai Eflays.
Suppose then Atlas ne'er so wise ;
A TOWN ECLOGU E.
Scene, The Royal Exchange.
No'hail descends, and frosts can pinch no more,
Phillis discontented here, Nor feels the turn of the revolving year? Why on that brow dwell forrow and disinay, Where Loves were wont to sport, and Smiles to play? Phillis. Ah, Corydon! survey the 'Change
around, Through all the 'Change nowretch like me is found: Alas! the day, when I, poor heedless maid,
2 Was to your rooms in Lincoln's-Inn betray'd; Then how you fwore, how many vows you
made! Ye listening Zephyrs, that o’erheard his love, Waft the soft accents to the gods above. Alas ! the day; for (O, eternal shame!) I sold you handkerchiefs, and loft
Cor. When I forget the favour
bestow'd, Red herrings shall be spawn’d in Tyburn Road; Fleet-street transform'd become a flowery green, And mass be sung where operas are seen. The wealthy cit, and the St. James's beau, Shall change their quarters, and their joys forego; Stock-jobbing, this, to Jonathan's shall come, At the Groom Porter's, that, play off his plum.
PHIL. But what to me does all that love avail, If, while I doze at home o'er porter's ale, Each night with wine and wenches you regale ? My live-long hours in anxious caręs are past, And raging hunger lays my beauty waste. On templars spruce in vain I glances throw, And with shrill voice invite them as they go, Expos'd in vain my glossy ribbands shine, And unregarded wave upon the twine. The week flies round; and when my profit's known, I hardly clear enough to change a crown.
CọR. Hard fate of virtue, thus to be distrest,
Phil. And yet Crepundia, that conceited fair,
Cor. She might as well with bright Cleora vie.
PHIL. With this large petticoat I strive in vain To hide my folly past, and coming pain;