But as for the poem he writ on your fash, I think I have now got him under my lash; My fifter tranfcrib'd it last night to his forrow,

And the publick shall fee't, if I live till to

morrow.

Thro' the zodiac around, it fhall quickly be spread

In all parts of the globe, where your language is read.

He knows very well, I ne'er gave a refufal, When he afk'd for my aid in the forms that are ufual:

But the fecret is this; I did lately intend To write a few verfes on you, as my friend: I ftudied a fortnight, before I could find, As I rode in my chariot, a thought to my mind,

And refolv'd the next winter (for that is my time,

When the days are at shorteft) to get it in rhime;

Till then it was lock'd in my box at Par

naffus :

When that subtle companion, in hopes to furpass us,

Conveys

Conveys out my paper of hints by a trick, (For I think in my confcience he deals with old nick)

And, from my own own stock provided with topicks,

He gets to a window beyond both the tropicks;

There out of my fight, just against the north zone,

Writes down my conceits, and calls them his own;

And

like a cully, the bubble can

you, fwallow:

Now, who but Delany, that writes like

Apollo?

High treason by ftatute! but here you object,

He only ftole hints, but the verfe is correct;

Tho' the thought be Apollo's, 'tis finely exprefs'd,

So a thief steals my horfe, and has him well drefs'd.

Now whereas the faid criminal feems paft repentance.

We Phoebus think fit to proceed to the sen

tence.

Since Delany has dar'd, like Prometheus his fire,

To climb to our region, and thence to steal fire;

We order a vulture, in fhape of the spleen, To prey on his liver, but not to be seen. And we order our fubjects of ev'ry degree To believe all his verfes were written by me: And, under the pain of our highest displeasure,

To call nothing his but the rhime and the measure.

And lastly, for Stella juft out of her prime, I'm too much revenged already by time. In return to her fcorn, I fent her diseases, But will now be her friend, whenever she pleases:

And the gifts I beftow'd her will find her a lover,

Tho' fhe lives to be grey as a badger all

over.

An

An ELEGY on the much-lamented death of Mr. Demar, the famous rich ufurer, who died the fixth of July 1720.

Written in the Year 1720.

KNOW all men by thefe presents, death

the tamer

Bymortgage hath fecur'd the corps of Demar; Nor can four hundred thousand fterling pound Redeem him from his prifon under ground. His heirs might well, of all his wealth poffeft,

Beftow to bury him one iron cheft. Plutus, the god of wealth, will joy to know His faithful ftewards in the fhades below. He walk'd the streets, and wore a threadbare cloak;

He din'd and supp'd at charge of other folk;

And by his looks, had he held out his palms,
He might be thought an object fit for alms;
So, to the poor if he refus'd his pelf,
He us'd them full as kindly as himself.

Where'er he went, he never faw his betters; Lords, knights and Squires, were all his humble debtors;

And

And under hand and feal the irish nation Were forc'd to own to him their obligation.

He that could once have half a king-
dom bought,

In half a minute is not worth a groat.
His coffers from the coffin could not fave,
Nor all his int'reft keep him from the grave.
A golden monument would not be right,
Because we wish the earth upon him light.

Oh! London tavern*! thou hast lost a
friend,

Tho' in thywalls he ne'er did farthing spend: He touch'd the pence when others touch'd the pot ;

The hand that fign'd the mortgage paid the

fhot.

Old as he was, no vulgar known difeafe On him could ever boaft a pow'r to feize; But, as his gold he weigh'd, grim death in fpight

Caft in his dart, which made three moidores light;

And as he faw his darling money fail,
Blew his laft breath to fink the lighter fcale.

* A tavern in Dublin where Demar kept his office.

He,