The Point he could no longer doubt,

He ran, he leapt into the Flood;
There sprawl'd a while, and fcarce got out,
All cover'd o'er with Slime and Mud.

Upon the Water cast thy Bread,

And after many Days thou'lt find it ; But Gold upon this Ocean spread,

Shall fink, and leave no Mark behind it.

There is a Gulph, where thousands fell,
Here all the bold Advent'rers came,
A narrow Sound, though deep as Hell;
'Change-Alley is the dreadful Name.

Nine Times a Day it ebbs and flows,
Yet he that on the Surface lies,
Without a Pilot feldom knows

The Time it falls, or when 'twill rife.

Subscribers here by thousands float;

And jostle one another down;

Each padling in his leaky Boat,

And here they fish, for Gold, and drown.

*Now bury'd in the Depth below,
Now mounted up to Heaven agen,

They reel and stagger to and fro,
At their Wits End, like drunken Men.

* Pfal. cvii.

Mean

*

Mean time, fecure, on Garr'way Clifts,
A favage Race by Shipwrecks fed,
Lie waiting for the founder'd Skiffs,
And strip the Bodies of the Dead.

But thefe, you fay, are factious Lyes,
From fome malicious Tory's Brain;
For, where Directors get a Prize,

The Swifs and Dutch whole Millions drain.

Thus, when by Rooks a Lord is ply'd,
Some Cully often wins a Bet,
By vent❜ring on the cheating Side,
Tho' not into the Secret let.

While fome build Caftles in the Air,
Directors build 'em in the Seas;
Subscribers plainly fee 'em there,

For Fools will fee as wife Men please.

Thus oft' by Mariners are fhewn,

(Unless the Men of Kent be Lyars,) Earl Godwin's Caftles overflown,

And Palace Roofs, and Steeple Spires.

Mark where the fly Directors creep,
Nor to the Shore approach too nigh!
The Monsters neftle in the Deep,
To seize you in your paffing by.

A Coffee-House in Change-Alley.

Then,

Then, like the Dogs of Nile, be wife,
Who taught by Inftinct how to fhun
The Crocodile, that lurking lies,

Run as they drink, and drink and run.

Antaus could, by Magick Charms,
Recover Strength, whene'er he fell;
Alcides held him in his Arms,

And fent him up in Air to Hell.

Directors thrown into the Sea,
Recover Strength and Vigour there;
may be tam'd another Way,
Sufpended for a while in Air.

But

Directors! for 'tis you I warn,

By long Experience we have found,
What Planet rul'd, when you were born;
We see you never can be drown'd.

Beware, nor over-bulky grow,

Nor come within your Cully's Reach;
For, if the Sea fhou'd fink so low,
To leave you dry upon the Beach;

You'll owe your Ruin to your

Bulk:

Your Foes already waiting stand,
To tear you like a founder'd Hulk,
While you lie helpless on the Sand.

Thus,

Thus, when a Whale hath loft the Tide,
The Coasters crowd to feize the Spoil;
The Monster into Parts divide,

And ftrip the Bones, and melt the Oil.

Oh! may fome Western Tempeft sweep
Thefe Locusts, whom our Fruits have fed
That Plague, Directors, to the Deep,
Driv'n from the South-Sea to the Red.

May he, whom Nature's Laws obey;
Who lifts the Poor, and finks the Proud,
Quiet the raging of the Sea,

And ftill the Madness of the Crowd.

But never shall our Isle have Rest,
Till thofe devouring Swine run down,

(The Devil's leaving the Poffeft,)

And beadlong in the Waters drown.

The Nation then too late will find,
Computing all their Coft and Trouble,
Directors Promises but Wind,

South-Sea at best a mighty Bubble.

Apparent rari nantes in Gurgite vafto,

Arma virúm, tabulæque, & Troïa gaza per undas.

VOL. II.

L

VIRG.

EPI

EPILOGUE to a Play for the Benefit of the WEAVERS in Ireland.

Written about the Year 1721.

HO dares affirm this is no pious Age,

WH

When Charity begins to tread the Stage? When Actors, who, at beft, are hardly Savers, Will give a Night of Benefit to Weavers ? Stay, let me fee, how finely will it found! Imprimis, From his * Grace an Hundred Pound. Peers, Clergy, Gentry, all are Benefactors; And then comes in the Item of the Actors. Item, the Actors freely gave a Day,

The Poet had no more, who made the Play.

་

BUT whence this wond'rous Charity in Play'rs? They learnt it not at Sermons, or at Pray'rs: Under the Rofe, fince here are none but Friends, (To own the Truth) we have fome private Ends. Since Waiting-Women, like exacting Jades, Hold up the Prices of their old Brocades; We'll drefs in Manufactures made at home, Equip our Kings and Generals at the Comb;

We'll

*Dr. KING, Archbishop of Dublin.

† A Street in Dublin, famous for Woollen Manufactures.