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 p-s.
ATLAS: OR, THE MINISTER OF STATE.
TO THE LORD TREASURER OXFORD.
ATLAS, 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, lest the ponderous spheres
Should sink and fall about his ears,
Got Hercules to bear the pile,
That he might sit 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.
Suppose, then, Atlas ne'er so wise,
Yet when the weight of kingdoms lies
Too long upon his single shoulders,
Sink down he must, or find upholders.
THIS day (the year I dare not tell)
Apollo play'd the midwife's part;
Into the world Corinna fell,
And he endow'd her with his art:
But Cupid with a Satyr comes,
Both softly to the cradle creep;
Both stroke her hands and rub her gums,
While the poor child lay fast asleep.
Then Cupid thus: This little maid
Of love shall always speak and write:' And I pronounce, (the Satyr said)
The world shall feel her scratch and bite.'
Her talent she display'd betimes;
For in twice twelve revolving moons She seem'd to laugh and squall in rhymes, And all her gestures were lampoons.
At six years old the subtle jade
Stole to the pantry-door, and found
The butler with my lady's maid,
And
you may swear the tale went round.
She made a song, how little Miss
Was kiss'd and slobber'd by a lad;
And how when Master went to p--,
Miss came, and peep'd at all he had.
At twelve a wit and a coquette,
Marries for love, half whore, half wife; Cuckolds, elopes, and runs in debt; Turns authoress, and is Curll's for life.
Her common-place book all gallant is,
Of scandal now a cornucopia,
She pours it out in Atalantis,
Or Memoirs of the new Utopia.
MIDAS, we are in story told,
Turn'd every thing he touch'd to gold:
He chipp'd his beard; the pieces round
Glitter'd like spangles on the ground.
A codling, ere it went his lip in,
Would straight become a golden pippin.
He call'd for drink; you saw him sup
Potable gold in golden cup.
His empty paunch that he might fill,
He suck'd his victuals through a quill;
Untouch'd it pass'd between his grinders,
Or't had been happy for gold-finders.
He cock'd his hat, you would have said
Mambrino's helm adorn'd his head.
Whene'er he chanced his hands to lay
On magazines of corn or hay,
Gold ready coin'd appear'd, instead
Of paltry provender and bread;
Hence by wise farmers we are told,
Old hay is equal to old gold;
And hence a critic deep maintains,
We learn'd to weigh our gold by grains.
This fool had got a lucky hit,
And people fancied he had wit.
Two gods their skill in music tried,
And both chose Midas to decide ;
He against Phoebus' harp decreed,
And gave it for Pan's oaten reed:
The god of wit, to show his grudge,
Clapp'd asses' ears upon the judge;
A goodly pair, erect and wide,
Which he could neither gild nor hide.
And now the virtue of his hands
Was lost among Pactolus' sands,
Against whose torrent while he swims,
The golden scurf peels off his limbs:
Fame spreads the news, and people travel
From far to gather golden gravel:
Midas, exposed to all their jeers,
Had lost his art, and kept his ears.
This tale inclines the gentle reader
To think upon a certain leader,
To whom from Midas down descends
That virtue in the fingers' ends.
What else by perquisites are meant,
By pensions, bribes, and three per cent.
By places and commissions sold,
And turning dung itself to gold?
By starving in the midst of store,
As the' other Midas did before?
None e'er did modern Midas choose
Subject or patron of his Muse,
But found him thus their merit scan,
That Phoebus must give place to Pan:
He values not the poet's praise,
Nor will exchange his plums for bays:
To Pan alone rich misers call;
And there's the jest, for Pan is All.
Here English wits will be to seek;
Howe'er, 'tis all one in the Greek.
Besides, it plainly now appears
Our Midas too hath asses' ears,
Where every fool his mouth applies,
And whispers in a thousand lies:
Such gross delusions could not pass
Through any ears but of an ass.
But gold defiles with frequent touch;
There's nothing fouls the hand so much;
And scholars give it for the cause
Of British Midas' dirty paws,
Which while the senate strove to scour,
They wash'd away the chemic power.
While he his utmost strength applied,
To swim against this popular tide,
The golden spoils flew off apace;
Here fell a pension, there a place :
The torrent merciless imbibes
Commissions, perquisites, and bribes;
By their own weight sunk to the bottom,
Much good may't do them that have caught them;
And Midas now neglected stands
With asses' ears and dirty hands.
1 A cant word for 100,000l.
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