The dreadful murmur heaven's high convex cleaves,
And Neptune shrinks beneath his subject-waves;
For long the whirling winds and beating tides
Had scoop'd a vault into its nether sides.

Now yields the base, the summits nod, now urge
Their headlong course, and lash the sounding surge:
Not louder noise could shake the guilty world
When Jove heap'd mountains upon mountains,
Retorting Pelion from his dread abode, [hurl❜d
To crush earth's rebel sons beneath the load.
Oft, too, with hideous yawn the caverns wide
Present an orifice on either side,

A dismal orifice, from sea to sea

Extended, pervious to the god of day:
Uncouthly join'd, the rocks stupendous form
An arch, the ruin of a future storm:

High on the cliff their nests the woodquests make,
And sea-calves stable in the oozy lake.

But when bleak Winter with his sullen train Awakes the winds to vex the watery plain; When o'er the craggy steep, without control, Big with the blast the raging billows roll, Not towns beleaguer'd, not the flaming brand Darted from heaven by Jove's avenging hand, Oft as on impious men his wrath he pours, Humbles their pride, and blasts their gilded towers, Equal the tumult of this wild uproar;

Waves rush o'er waves, rebellow shore to shore. The neighbouring race, though wont to brave the Of angry seas and run among the rocks, [shocks, Now pale with terror, while the ocean foams, Fly far and wide, nor trust their native homes.

The goats, while pendent from the mountain-top The wither'd herb improvident they crop,

Wash'd down the precipice with sudden sweep, Leave their sweet lives beneath the' unfathom'd deep.

The frighted fisher, with desponding eyes, Though safe, yet trembling in the harbour lies, Nor hoping to behold the skies serene, Wearies with vows the monarch of the main.

UPON

THE HORRID PLOT

DISCOVERED BY HARLEQUIN, THE BISHOP OF ROCHESTER'S FRENCH DOG 1.

IN A DIALOGUE BETWEEN A WHIG AND A TORY.

1723.

TORY.

I ASK'D a Whig the other night,
How came this wicked Plot to light?
He answer'd, that a Dog of late
Inform'd a minister of state.
Said I, from thence I nothing know,
For are not all informers so?
A villain who his friend betrays,
We style him by no other phrase;

See the proceedings in Parliament against Dr. Atterbury, the Bishop of Rochester, State Trials, Vol. VI.-He was tried by the Lords for a plot against the government, deprived of his bishopric, and banished his native country. He died in France, Feb. 15, 1732.

And so a perjured Dog denotes

Porter, and Prendergast, and Oates,

And forty others I could name.

WHIG. But you must know this Dog was lame. TORY. A weighty argument indeed! Your evidence was lame;-proceed. Come help your lame Dog o'er the stile.

WHIG. Sir, you mistake me all this while: I mean a Dog (without a joke)

Can howl and bark, but never spoke.

TORY. I'm still to seek which Dog you mean,
Whether Cur Plunket, or Whelp Skean;
An English or an Irish hound,

Or the' other puppy that was drown'd,
Or Mason, that abandon'd bitch;
Then pray be free, and tell me which:
For every stander-by was marking
That all the noise they made was barking.
You pay them well; the Dogs have got
Their dogs'-heads in a porridge-pot;
And 'twas but just, for wise men say,
That every Dog must have his day.
Dog Walpole laid a quart of nog on't,
He'd either make a hog or Dog on't,
And look'd, since he has got his wish,
As if he had thrown down a dish:
from it,

Yet this I dare foretell you

He'll soon return to his own vomit.

WHIG. Besides, this horrid Plot was found

By Neynoe, after he was drown'd.

TORY. Why then the proverb is not right,

Since you can teach dead dogs to bite.
WHIG. I proved my proposition full,

But Jacobites are strangely dull.

Now let me tell you plainly, Sir,
Our witness is a real cur,

A Dog of spirit for his years,

Has twice two legs, two hanging ears;
His name is Harlequin I wot,
And that's a name in every plot;
Resolved to save the British nation,
Though French by birth and education,
His correspondence, plainly dated,
Was all decipher'd and translated;
His answers were exceeding pretty
Before the secret wise Committee;
Confess'd as plain as he could bark,
Then with his forefoot set his mark.

TORY. Then all this while have I been bubbled,
I thought it was a dog in doublet:
The matter now no longer sticks,

For statesmen never want dog-tricks :
But since it was a real cur,
And not a Dog in metaphor,

I give you joy of the report

That he's to have a place at court.

WHIG. Yes, and a place he will grow rich in,

A turnspit in the royal kitchen.

Sir, to be plain, I'll tell you what,

We had occasion for a plot,

And when we found the Dog begin it,

We guess'd the Bishop's foot was in it.
TORY. I own it was a dangerous project,
And you have proved it by dog-logic.
Sure such intelligence between
A Dog and Bishop ne'er was seen,
Till you began to change the breed;
Your Bishops all are dogs indeed.

JOAN CUDGELS NED.

1723.

JOAN cudgels Ned, yet Ned's a bully; Will cudgels Bess, yet Will's a cully. Die Ned and Bess; give Will to Joan, She dares not say her life's her own. Die Joan and Will; give Bess to Ned, And every day she combs his head.

PETHOX THE GREAT.

1723.

FROM Venus born thy beauty shows,
But who thy father no man knows,
Nor can the skilful herald trace
The founder of thy ancient race:
Whether thy temper, full of fire,
Discovers Vulcan for thy sire,
The god who made Scamander boil,
And round his margin singed the soil,
From whence, philosophers agree,
An equal power descends to thee;
Whether from dreadful Mars you claim
The high descent from whence you came.
And, as a proof, show numerous scars
By fierce encounters made in wars,
Those honourable wounds you bore
From head to foot, and all before,