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Why, Stella, should
your Brow, If I compare you to a Cow? 'Tis just the Cafe: For you have fafted So long till all your Flesh is wasted, And must against the warmer Days, Be sent to * Quilca down to graze ; Where Mirth, and Exercise, and Air, Will soon your Appetite repair, The Nutriment will from within, Round all your Body, plump your Skin ; Will agitate the lazy Flood, And fill your Veins with sprightly Blood : Nor Flesh nor Blood will be the same, Nor ought of Stella, but the Name; For, what was ever understood By human Kind, but Flesh and Blood ? And, if your Flesh and Blood be new, You'll be no more your former You, But for a blooming Nymph will pass, Jult Fifteen, coming Summer's Grass : Your jetty Locks with Garlands crown'd, While all the 'Squires from nine Miles round, Attended by a Brace of Curs, With Jockey Boots, and Silver Spurs ; No less than Justices o' Quorum, Their Cow-boys bearing Cloaks before 'um,
Shall leave deciding broken Pates,
To kiss your Steps at Quilca Gates ;
But, left you should my Skill disgrace,
Come back before you're out of Case:
For, if to Michaelmas you stay,
The new-born Flesh will melt away ;
The 'Squires in Scorn will fly the House
For better Game, and look for Grouse :
But here, before the Froft can marr it,
We'll make it firm with Beef and Claret.
To QUILCA, a Country-House in
no very good Repair, where the supposed Author, and some of his Friends, Spent a Summer, in the Year, 1725.
ET me thy Properties explain,
A rotten Cabbin, dropping Rain ;
Chimnies with Scorn rejecting Smoak ;
Stools, Tables, Chairs, and Bed-steads broke :
Here Elements have lost their Ufes,
Air ripens not, nor Earth produces :
In vain we make poor Sheelab toil,
Fire will not roast, nor Water boil.
Thro' all the Vallies, Hills, and Plains,
The Goddess Want in Triumph reigns ;
And the chief Officers of State,
Sloth, Dirt, and Theft around her wait.
A SIMILE on our Want of SILVER,
and the only way to remedy it.
Written in the Year 1725.
S when of old, fome Sorc'ress threw
O’er the Moon's Face, a fable Hue,
To drive unseen her Magick Chair,
At Midnight, through the darken'd Air ;
Wise People, who believ'd with Reason
That this Eclipse was out of Season,
Affirm'd the Moon was fick, and fell
To cure her by a Counter-spell :
Ten thousand Cymbals now begin
To rend the Skies with brazen Din ;
The Cymbals rattling Sounds dispel
The Cloud, and drive the Hag to Hell :,
The Moon, deliver'd from her Pain,
Displays her Silver Face again.
(Note here, that in the Chymick Style,
The Moon is Silver all this while.)
So, (if my Simile you minded, Which, I confess, is too long winded) VOL. II.
When late a Feminine Magician,
Join'd with a brazen Politician,
Expos’d, to blind the Nation's Eyes,
A * Parchment of prodigious Size ;
Conceal'd behind that ample Screen,
There was no Silver to be seen.
But, to this Parchment let the Drapier
Oppose his Counter-Charm of Paper,
And ring Wood's Copper in our Ears
So loud, till all the Nation hears;
That Sound will make the Parchment shrivel,
And drive the Conj'rers to the Devil:
And when the Sky is grown serene,
Our Silver will appear again.
A Patent to W. Wood, for coining Half-pence.
On Woon, the Iron-monger.
Written in the Year 1725.
YA LMO NEUS, as the Grecian Tale is,
Was made a Copper-Smith of Elis:
Up at his Forge by Morning-peep,
No Creature in the Lane could neep.
Among a Crew of royftring Fellows
Would fit whole Ev’nings at the Ale-house :
His Wife and Children wanted Bread,
While he went always drunk to Bed.
This vap'ring Scab must needs devise
To ape the Thunder of the Skies ;
With Brass two fiery Steeds he shod,
To make a Clatt ring as they trod.
Of polish'd Brass, his fiaming Car,
Like Lightning dazzled from a-far:
he mounts into the Box,
And he must thunder with a Pox.-
Then, furious he begins his March ;
Drives rattling o'er a brazen Arch :
With Squibs and Crackers arm'd, to throw
Among the trembling Croud below.
All ran to Prayʻrs, both Priests and Laity,
To pacify this angry Deity;
When yove, in Pity to the Town,
With real Thunder knock'd him down,
Then what a huge Delight were all in,
To see the wicked Varlet sprawling;
They search'd his Pockets on the Place,
And found his Copper all was base;
They laugh'd at such an Irish Blunder,
To take the Noise of Brass for Thunder.
The Moral of this Tale is proper,
Apply'd to Wood's adultorate Copper.
Which, as he scatter'd, we, like Dolts,
Mistook at first for Thunder-bolts ;
Before the Drapier shot a Letter,
(Nor Jove himself could do it better)