Where there are none, it ftands erect,
Scorning to fhew the leaft refpect;
As ready was the wand of Sid,

To bend where golden mines were hid;
In Scotifh 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 purfe 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 fouls to Styx.
That rod was just a type of Sid's,
Which o'er a British senate's lids
Could fcatter opium full as well,
And drive as many fouls to hell.

Sid's rod was flender, white, and tall,
Which oft he us'd to fish withal;
A plaice was faften'd to the hook,
And many fcore of gudgeons took:
Yet ftill fo happy was his fate,
*He caught his fifh, and fav'd his bait.

Sid's brethren of the conjuring tribe,
A circle with their rod defcribe,

Which

proves a magical redoubt, To keep mischievous fpirits out. Sid's rod was of a larger ftride, And made a circle thrice as wide,

Suppofed to allude to the Union.

Where

Where fpirits throng'd with hideous din,
And he ftood 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 fo good;
That down from ancestors divine
Tranfmitted to the hero's line;

Thence, through a long descent of kings,
Came an HEIR-LOOM, as Homer fings.
Though this description looks fo big,
That fceptre was a faplefs twig,
Which, from the fatal day, when first
It left the foreft where 'twas nurs'd,
As Homer tells us o'er and o'er,
Nor leaf, nor fruit, nor bloffom, bore.
Sid's fceptre, full of juice, did fhoot
In golden boughs, and golden fruit;
And he, the dragon never fleeping,
Guarded each fair Hefperian pippin.
No hobby-horse, with gorgeous top,
The deareft 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 kifs'd it in your distress,
And then return'd it to your mistress;

An eminent toyman in Fleet-ftreet.

F 2

Or

Or made it a Newmarket * fwitch,
And not a rod for thy own breech.
But fince 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.

ATLAS, we read in ancient song,
Was fo exceeding tall and strong,

He bore the skies upon his back,
Juft as a pedlar does his pack:
But, as a pedlar overprefs'd,
Unloads upon a stall to reft,
Or, when he can no longer ftand,
Defires a friend to lend a hand;
So Atlas, left the ponderous fpheres
Should fink, and fall about his ears,
Got Hercules to bear the pile,
That he might fit and rest a while.

Yet Hercules was not fo ftrong,
Nor could have borne it half fo 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 fatirized by Mr. Pope for a strong attach

mente turf. See his Morai Effays.

Suppole

Suppofe then Atlas ne'er fo wife;

Yet, when the weight of kingdoms lies
Too long upon his fingle fhoulders,
Sink down he muft, or find upholders.

A TOWN EC LOGUE. 1710.

Scene, THE ROYAL EXCHANGE.

CORYDON.

NOW the keen rigour of the winter's o'er,
No hail defcends, and frofts can pinch no more,
While other girls confefs the genial fpring,
And laugh aloud, or amorous ditties fing,
Secure from cold their lovely necks display,
And throw each useless chafing-dish away;
Why fits my Phillis difcontented here,
Nor feels the turn of the revolving year?
Why on that brow dwell forrow and difinay,
Where Loves were wont to sport, and Smiles to play?
PHILLIS. Ah, Corydon! furvey the 'Change

around,

made!S

Through all the 'Change no wretch like me is found: Alas! the day, when I, poor heedlefs maid, Was to your rooms in Lincoln's-Inn betray'd; Then how you fwore, how many vows you Ye listening Zephyrs, that o'erheard his love, Waft the foft accents to the gods above. Alas! the day; for (O, eternal fhame!) I fold you handkerchiefs, and loft

F 3

my

fame.

COR.

COR. When I forget the favour you bestow'd, Red herrings shall be spawn'd in Tyburn Road; Fleet-ftreet transform'd become a flowery green, And mafs be fung 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 fhall 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 cares are paft, And raging hunger lays my beauty waste. On templars fpruce in vain I glances throw, And with fhrill voice invite them as they go. Expos'd in vain my gloffy ribbands fhine, And unregarded wave upon the twine.

The week flies round; and when my profit's known, I hardly clear enough to change a crown.

COR. Hard fate of virtue, thus to be diftreft, Thou fairest of thy trade, and far the best! As fruitmens falls the fummer-market grace, And ruddy peaches them; as first in place Plum-cake is feen o'er fmaller 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 paft, and coming pain;