Imatges de pÓgina
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The Point he could no longer doubt,

He ran, he leapt into the Flood
There sprawld a while, and scarce got out,

All cover'd o'er with Slime and Mud.

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Upon the Water cast thy Bread,

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

Shall sink, 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 seldom knows.

The Time it falls, or when 'twill rise.

Subscribers here by thousands Aoat;

And joftle 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 si agger to and fro,

At their Wits End, like drunken Men.

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Mean time, secure, on * Garrway Clifts,

A savage Race by Shipwrecks fed,
Lie waiting for the founder'd Skiffs,

And strip the Bodies of the Dead.

But these, you say, are factious Lyes,

From some mnalicious Tory's Brain ;
For, where Directors get a Prize,
· The Swiss 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 some build Castles in the Air,

Directors build 'em in the Seas;
Subscribers plainly see 'em there,

For Fools will see as wise Men please.

Thus oft by Mariners are shewn,

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

And Palace Roofs, and Steeple Spires.

Mark where the fly Directors creep,

Nor to the Shore approach too nigh!
The Monsters nestle in the Deep,
To seize

you
in

your passing by.

Then,

* A Coffee-House in Change- Alley.

:

Then, like the Dogs of Nile, be wise,

Who taught by Instinct how to shun The Crocodile, that lurking lies,

Run as they drink, and drink and run.

Antæus could, by Magick Charms,

Recover Strength, whene'er he fell ; Alcides held him in his Arms,

And sent him up in Air to Hell.

Directors thrown into the Sea,

Recover Strength and Vigour there; But may be tam'd another Way,

Suspended for a while in Air.

Diretors! 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 shou'd link 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.

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Thus, when a Whale hath lost the Tide,

The Coasters crowd to seize the Spoil ;
The Monster into Parts divide,

And strip the Bones, and melt the Oil.

Oh! may fome Western Tempest sweep

These Locusts, whom our Fruits have fede
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 sinks the Proud,
Quiet the raging of the Sea,

And still the Madness of the Crowd.

But never shall our Ine have Rest,

Till those devouring Swine run down, (The Devil's leaving the Pollest,)

And beadlong in the Waters drown.

The Nation then too late will find,

Computing all their Coft and Trouble,
Diretors Promises but Wind,

Soutb-Sea at best a mighty Bubble.

Apparent rari nantes in Gurgite vasto,
Arma virúm, tabuleque, & Troża gaza per undas.

VIRG.

Vol. II.

L

EPI

EPILOGUE to a Play for the

Benefit of the Weavers in Ireland.

Written about the Year 1721.

WH

HO dares affirm this is no pious Age,

When Charity begins to tread the Stage ? When Actors, who, at best, are hardly Savers, Will give a Night of Benefit to Weavers ? Stay, let me see, how finely will it sound! 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 wondrous Charity in Play’rs ? They learnt it not at Sermons, or at Pray’rs: Under the Rose, since here are none but Friends, (To own the Truth) we have some private Ends. Since Waiting-Women, like exacting Jades, Hold up the Prices of their old Brocades; We'll dress in Manufa&tures 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,

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