WHY, Stella, fhould you knit your Brow,
If I compare you to a Cow?
'Tis just the Cafe: For you have fasted
So long till all your Flesh is wasted,
And must against the warmer Days,
Be fent to Quilca down to graze;
Where Mirth, and Exercife, and Air,
Will foon 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 fame,
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,
Juft Fifteen, coming Summer's Grafs:
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 Juftices o' Quorum,
Their Cow-boys bearing Cloaks before 'um,
* A Friend's Houfe thirty Miles from Dublin.
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 Cafe:
For, if to Michaelmas you ftay,
The new-born Flefh 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-Houfe in no very good Repair, where the fuppofed Author, and fome 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 loft their Uses,
Air ripens not, nor Earth produces:
In vain we make poor Sheelab toil,
Fire will not roaft, 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 unfeen her Magick Chair,
At Midnight, through the darken'd Air;
Wife People, who believ'd with Reason
That this Eclipfe 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 difpel
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 confefs, is too long winded)
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 feen.
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 fhrivel,
And drive the Conj'rers to the Devil:
And when the Sky is grown ferene,
Our Silver will appear again.
* A Patent to W. WOOD, for coining Half-pence.
On WOOD, the Iron-monger.
Written in the Year 1725.
SALMONEUS,
ALMONEUS, 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 fleep.
Among a Crew of royft'ring 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 muft needs devise
ape
the Thunder of the Skies;
With Brass two fiery Steeds he fhod,
To make a Clatt'ring as they trod.
Of polish'd Brass, his flaming Car,
Like Light'ning dazzled from a-far:
And up 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 Pray'rs, both Priests and Laity,
To pacify this angry Deity;
When Jove, in Pity to the Town,
With real Thunder knock'd him down,
Then what a huge Delight were all in,
To fee the wicked Varlet fprawling;
They fearch'd his Pockets on the Place,
And found his Copper all was base;
They laugh'd at such an Irish Blunder,
To take the Noife of Brafs for Thunder.
THE Moral of this Tale is proper,
Apply'd to Wood's adult'rate Copper.
Which, as he scatter'd, we, like Dolts,
Miftook at firft for Thunder-bolts;
Before the Drapier fhot a Letter,
(Nor Jove himfelf could do it better)
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