Such is that Sprinkling, which fome careless Quean
Flirts on you from her Mop; but not fo clean:
You fly, invoke the Gods; then turning, ftop
To rail; fhe finging, ftill whirls on her Mop.
Nor yet the Dust had shun'd th' unequal Strife,
But aided by the Wind, fought ftill for Life;
And wafted with its Foe by vi'lent Gust,
* 'Twas doubtful which was Rain, and which was Duft.
Ah! where must needy Poet feek for Aid,
When Duft and Rain at once his Coat invade ? Sole Coat, where Duft, cemented, by the Rain Erects the Nap, and leaves a cloudy Stain.
Now, in contiguous Drops the Flood comes down,
Threat'ning with Deluge this devoted Town.
To Shops in Crowds the daggled Females fly,
Pretend to cheapen Goods; but nothing buy.
The Templer spruce, while ev'ry Spout's abroach,
Stays till 'tis fair, yet feems to call a Coach.
The tuck'd-up Sempftrefs walks with hafty Strides,
While Streams run down her oil'd Umbrella's Sides,
Here various Kinds by various Fortunes led,
Commence Acquaintance underneath a Shed.
+Triumphant Tories, and defponding Whigs,
Forget their Feuds, and join to fave their Wigs.
* 'Twas doubtful which was Sea, and which was Sky,
+N. B. This was the first Year of the Earl of Oxford's Ministry.
Box'd in a Chair the Beau impatient fits,
While Spouts run clatt'ring o'er the Roof by Fits;
And ever and anon with frightful Din
The Leather founds; he trembles from within.
So, when Troy Chair-Men bore the Wooden-Steed,
Pregnant with Greeks, impatient to be freed;
(Those Bully Greeks, who, as the Moderns do,
Inftead of paying Chair-Men, run them thro')
Laocoon ftruck the Out-fide with his Spear,
And each imprison'd Hero quak'd for Fear.
Now from all Parts the fwelling Kennels flow, And bear their Trophies with them, as they go: Filths of all Hues and Odours seem to tell What Streets they fail'd from, by the Sight and Smell.
They, as each Torrent drives with rapid Force, From Smithfield, or St. Pulchre's fhape their Course; And in huge Confluent join at Snow-Hill Ridge, Fall from the Conduit prone to Holbourn-Bridge: * Sweepings from Butcher's Stalls, Dung, Guts, and Blood,
Drown'd Puppies, ftinking Sprats, all drench'd in Mud,
Dead Cats, and Turnip-Tops come tumbling down the Flood.
* These three laft Lines were intended against that licentious Manner of modern Poets, in making three Rhymes together, which they called Triplets; and the last of the three, was two or fometimes more Syllables longer, called an Alexandrian. These
A DESCRIPTION of the MORNING.
Written about the Year 1712.
WOW hardly here and there a Hackney-
Coach
Appearing, show'd the ruddy Morn's Approach.
Now Betty from her Master's Bed had flown,
And foftly stole to discompose her own.
The flip-fhod 'Prentice from his Master's Door
Had par'd the Dirt, and sprinkled round the Floor.
Now Moll had whirl'd her Mop with dextrous Airs,
Prepar'd to fcrub the Entry and the Stairs.
The Youth with broomy Stumps began to trace
TheKennel-Edge, where Wheels had worn thePlace.
The Small-Coal Man was heard with Cadence deep;
Till drown'd in fhriller Notes of Chimney-fweep.
Duns at his Lordship's Gate began to meet ;
And Brick-duft Moll had scream'd thro' half a Street.
The Turnkey now his Flock returning fees,
Duly let out a-Nights to fteal for Fees.
The watchful Bailiffs take their filent Stands;
And School-boys lag with Satchels in their Hands.
Triplets and Alexandrians were brought in by DRYDEN, and other Poes in the Reign of CHARLES II. They were the mere Effect of Hafte, Idlenefs, and Want of Money; and have been wholely avoided by the best Poets, fince these Verses were written. *To find old Nails.
The Virtues of SID HAMET, the Magician's Rod.
Written in the Year 1712.
HE Rod was but a harmless Wand,
While Mofes held it in his Hand;
But foon as e'er he laid it down,
'Twas a devouring Serpent grown.
OUR great Magician, Hamet Sid,
Reverses what the Prophet did:
His Rod was honeft English Wood,
That fenfelefs in a Corner ftood,
Till metamorphos'd by his Grafp,
It grew an all-devouring Afp;
Would hiss, and fting, and roll and twist,
By the mere Virtue of his Fift:
But when he laid it down, as quick
Refum'd the Figure of a Stick.
So, to her Midnight Feafts the Hag
Rides on a Broomstick for a Nag,
That, rais'd by Magick of her Breech,
O'er Sea and Land conveys the Witch:
But with the Morning Dawn refumes
The peaceful State of common Brooms.
THEY tell us fomething ftrange and odd,.
About a certain Magick Rod,
That, bending down its Top, divines,
Where'er the Soil has golden Mines :
Where there are none, it ftands erect,
Scorning to fhew the least Respect.
As ready was the Wand of Sid
To bend, where golden Mines were hid;
In Scottish Hills found precious Ore,
Where none e'er look'd for it before:
And by a gentle Bow divin'd,
How well a Cully's Purse was lin’d:
To a forlorn and broken Rake,
Stood without Motion, like a Stake.
THE Rod of Hermes was renown'd
For Charms above and under Ground;
To fleep could mortal Eye-lids fix,
And drive departed Souls to Styx.
That Rod was just a Type of Sid's,
Which o'er a British Senate's Lids
Could fcatter Opium full as well;
And drive as many Souls to Hell.
SID's Rod was flender, white and tall,
Which oft he us'd to fish withal:
A PLACE was faften'd to the Hook,
And many a Score of Gadgeons took;
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