Imatges de pÓgina
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Where there are none, it stands erect,
Scorning to shew the least respect ;
As ready was the wand of Sid,
To bend where golden mines were hid ;
In Scotish hills found precious ore
Where none e'er look'd for it before ;
And by a gentle bow divin'd
How well a cully's purse was lin'd;
To a forlorn and broken rake,
Stood without motion, like a stake.

The rod of Hermes was renown'd
For charms above, and under ground;
To fleep could mortal eye-lids fix,
And drive departed souls to Styx.
That rod was just a type of Sid's,
Which o'er a British fenate's lids
Could scatter opium full as well,
And drive as many souls to hell.

Sid's rod was slender, white, and tall,
Which oft he us'd to fish withal;
A plaice was fasten'd to the hook,
And many score of gudgeons took :
Yet still so happy was his fate,
* He'caught his fish, and fav’d his bait.

Sid's brethren of the conjuring tribe,
A circle with their rod describe,
Which proves a magical redoubt,
To keep mischievous spirits out.
Sid's rod was of a larger stride,
And made a circle thrice as wide,

• Supposed to allude to the Union.

Where

Where spirits throng'd with hideous din,
And he stood there to take them in :
But, when th' inchanted rod was broke,
They vanish'd in a stinking smoke.

Achilles' fceptre was of wood,
Like Sid's, but nothing near so good;
That down from ancestors divine
Transmitted to the hero's line;
Thence, through a long descent of kings,
Came an HEIR-LOOM, as Homer sings.
Though this description looks so big,
That sceptre was a sapless twig,
Which, from the fatal day, when first
It left the forest where 'twas nurs'd,
As Homer tells us o'er and o'er,
Nor leaf, nor fruit, nor blossom, bore.
Sid's sceptre, full of juice, did shoot
In golden boughs, and golden fruit;
And he, the dragon never sleeping,
Guarded each fair Hesperian pippin.
No hobby-horse, with gorgeous top,
The dearest in Charles Mather's * shop,
Or glittering tinsel of May-fair,
Could with this rod of Sid compare.

Dear Sid, then, why wert thou so mad
To break thy rod like naughty lad !
You should have kiss'd it in
And then return'd it to your mistress;

your distress,

• An eminent toyman in Fleet-street.

F 2

Or

Or made it a Newmarket * switch,
And not a rod for thy own breech.
But since old Sid has broken this,
His next may be a rod in piss.

ATLAS; OR, THE MINISTER OF STATE.

TO THE

LORD TREASURER OXFORD.

1710.

A TLAS, we read in ancient song,

Was so exceeding tall and strong,
He bore the skies upon his back, ,
Just as a pedlar does his pack :
But, as a pedlar overpress'd,
Unloads upon a stall to rest,
Or, when he can no longer stand,
Desires a friend to lend a hand;
So Atlas, left the ponderous spheres
Should sink, and fall about his ears,
Got Hercules to bear the pile,
That he might fit and rest a while.

Yet Hercules was not so strong,
Nor could have borne it half so long.

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

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Suppose then Atlas ne'er so wise ;
Yet, when the weight of kingdoms lies
Too long upon his fingle shoulders,
Sink down he must, or find upholders.

A TOWN ECLOGU E.

1710.

Scene, The Royal Exchange.

Why sits

CORYDON.
NOW the keen rigour of the winter's o'er,

No'hail descends, and frosts can pinch no more,
While other girls confess the genial spring,
And laugh aloud, or amorous ditties sing,
Secure from cold their lovely necks display,
And throw each useless chafing-dish away;

my

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

my

fame.

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Cor. When I forget the favour

you

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,
Thou fairest of thy trade, and far the best!
As fruitmens stalls the summer-market

grace,
And ruddy peaches them; as first in place
Plum-cake is seen o'er smaller pastry ware,
And ice on that; fo Phillis does appear
In play-house and in park, above the rest
Of belles mechanic, elegantly drest.

Phil. And yet Crepundia, that conceited fair,
Amid her toys, affects a faucy air,
And views me hourly with a scornful eye.

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;

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