A messenger comes all a-reek Mordanto at Madrid to seek : He left the town above a week.

Next day the post-boy winds his horn, And rides through Dover in the morn: Mordanto's landed from Leghorn.

Mordanto gallops on alone,
The roads are with his followers strown,
This breaks a girth, and that a bone :

His body active as his mind, Returning found in limb and wind, Except fome leather loft behind.

A skeleton in outward figure,
His meagre corps, though full of vigour,
Would halt behind him, were it bigger.

So wonderful his expedition,
When you have not the least suspicion,
He’s with you like an apparition.

Shines in all climates like a star;
In senates bold, and fierce in war,
A land-commander, and a tar.

Heroic actions early bred in, Ne'er to be match'd in modern reading, But by his name-fake Charles

Charles of Sweden.

The Fable of MIDAS:

Written in the Year 1712.

*M

IDAS, we are in story told,
Turn'd ev'ry thing he touch'd to

gold :

He chip'd his bread; the pieces round
Glitter'd like fpangles on the ground:
A codling, ere it went his lip in,
Would strait 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 fuck'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:
W ene'er he chanc'd his hands to lay
On magazines of corn or bay,
God ready coin'd appear’d, instead
Of paultry provender and bread :
Hence by wise farmers we are told,
Old hay is equal to old gold;
And hence a critick deep maintains,
We learn to weigh our gold by grains.

This fool had got a lucky hit ;
And people fancy'd he had wit.
Two gods their skill in musick try'd,
And both chose Midas to decide ;
He against Phæbus' harp decreed,
And gave it for Pan's oaten reed :

Thc

The god of wit, to shew his grudge,
Clapt 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 loft among Paftolus' 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, expos’d to all the 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 penfions, bribes, and three per cent, By places and commissions sold; And turning dung itself to gold? By starving in the midst of Itore As t'other Midas did before ?

None e'er did modern Midas chuse Subject or patron of his muse,

But

B 3

But found him thus their merit scan,
That Phæbus must give place to Pan :
He values not the poet's praise,
Nor will exchange his plumbs 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 ev'ry fool his mouth applies,
And whispers in a thousand lies,
Such gross delusions could not pass
Thro' any cars 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 apply'd, To swim against the pop'lar tide, The golden spoils few off apace; Here fell a pension, there a place ;