The omen is broken, the danger is over;
The maggot will die, and the sick will recover.
Such a worm was Will Wood when he scratch'd
at the door
Of a governing statesman or favourite whore;
The death of our nation he seem'd to foretell,
And the sound of his brass we took for our knell:
But now since the Drapier has heartily maul'd him,
I think the best thing we can do is to scald him ;
For which operation there's nothing more proper
Than the liquor he deals in, his own melted copper;
Unless, like the Dutch, you rather would boil
This coiner of raps in a caldron of oil.
Then choose which you please, and let each bring a faggot,
For our fear's at an end with the death of the maggot.
A COUNTRY-HOUSE OF DR. SHERIDAN, IN NO VERY GOOD REPAIR, WHERE THE AUTHOR AND SOME OF HIS FRIENDS SPENT A SUMMER IN THE YEAR 1725.
LET me thy properties explain:
A rotten cabin dropping rain;
Chimneys with scorn rejecting smoke;
Stools, tables, chairs, and bedsteads, broke.
Here elements have lost their uses,
Air ripens not, nor earth produces :
In vain we make poor Sheelah toil,
Fire will not roast, nor water boil.
Through all the valleys, hills, and plains,
The goddess Want in triumph reigns,
And her chief officers of state,
Sloth, Dirt, and Theft around her wait.
READING DR. YOUNG'S SATIRE,
CALLED THE UNIVERSAL PASSION, BY WHICH HE
IF there be truth in what you sing,
Such godlike virtues in the king,
A minister so fill'd with zeal
And wisdom for the commonweal;
If he who in the chair presides
So steadily the senate guides;
If others whom you make your
theme
Are seconds in this glorious scheme;
If every peer whom you commend
To worth and learning be a friend;
If this be truth, as you attest,
What land was ever half so bless'd?
No falsehood now among the great,
And tradesmen now no longer cheat;
Now on the bench fair Justice shines,
Her scale to neither side inclines;
Now Pride and Cruelty are flown,
And Mercy here exalts her throne;
For such is good Example's power,
It does its office every hour,
Where governors are good and wise,
Or else the truest maxim lies;
For so we find all ancient sages
Decree, that ad exemplum regis,
Through all the realm his virtues run,
Ripening and kindling, like the sun :
If this be true, then how much more,
When have.named at least a score
Of courtiers, each in their degree,
If possible, as good as he?
Or, take it in a different view,
I ask (if what you say be true)
If you affirm the present age
Deserves your satire's keenest rage;
If that same Universal Passion
With every vice hath fill'd the nation;
If Virtue dares not venture down
A single step beneath the crown;
If clergymen, to show their wit,
Praise classics more than Holy Writ;
If bankrupts when they are undone,
Into the senate-house can run,
And sell their votes at such a rate
As will retrieve a lost estate;
If Law be such a partial whore,
To spare the rich, and plague the poor; If these be all of crimes the worst, What land was ever half so cursed?
QUOTH the Thief to the Dog,' Let me into your And I'll give you these delicate bits.'- [door, Quoth the Dog, 'I should then be more villain than And, besides, must be out of my wits. [you're;
Your delicate bits will not serve me a meal, But my master each day gives me bread: You'll fly when you get what you came here to steal, And I must be hang'd in your stead.'
The stockjobber thus from 'Change-alley goes And tips you, the freeman, a wink; [down, Let me have but your vote to serve for the town, And here is a guinea to drink.'
Said the freeman, Your guinea to-night would be
Your offers of bribery cease;
[spent ;
I'll vote for my landlord to whom I pay rent,
Or else I may forfeit my lease.'
From London they come silly people to choose, Their lands and their faces unknown:
Who'd vote a rogue into the Parliament House, That would turn a man out of his own?
GRUB-STREET VERSE-WRITERS.
YE poets ragged and forlorn!
Down from your garrets haste!
Ye rhymers! dead as soon as born,
Not yet consign'd to paste;
I know a trick to make you thrive;
O, 'tis a quaint device!
Your still-born poems shall revive,
And scorn to wrap up spice.
Get all your verses printed fair,
Then let them well be dried,
And Curll must have a special care
To leave the margin wide.
Lend these to paper-sparing Pope,
And when he sits to write,
No letter with an envelope
Could give him more delight.
When Pope has fill'd the margins round,
Why then recall your loan;
Sell them to Curll for fifty pound,
And swear they are your own.
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