Imatges de pàgina

Such is that Sprinkling, which some careless Quean
Flirts on you from her Mop; but not so clean:
You fly, invoke the Gods; then turning, stop
To rail ; she singing, still whirls on her Mop.
Nor yet the Duft had shun’d th' unequal Strife,
But aided by the Wind, fought still for Life ;
And wafted with its Foe by vi’lent Gust,
* 'Twas doubtful which was Rain, and which was

Ah! where must needy Poet seek for Aid,
When Dust 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 ily, Pretend to cheapen Goods; but nothing buy. The Templer spruce, while ev'ry Spout's abroach, Stays till 'tis fair, yet seems to call a Coach. The tuck’d-up Sempftress walks with hasty Strides, While Streams run down her oild Umbrella's Sides, Here various kinds by various Fortunes led, Commence Acquaintance underneath a Shed. + Triumphant Tories, and desponding Whigs, Forget their Feuds, and join to save their Wigs.


* 'Twas doubtful which was Sea, and which was Sky,

Garth's Dife. + N.B. This was the firit 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,
Instead of paying Chair-Men, run them thro')
Laocoon struck the Out-side with his Spear,
And each imprison'd Hero quak'd for Fear.

Now from all Parts the swelling 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 shape 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, stinking Sprats, all drench'd

in Mud, Dead Cats, and Turnip-Tops come tumbling

down the Flood, Vol. II.



* 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 sometimes more Syllables longer, called an Alexandrian. These



Written about the Year 1712.

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OW 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 softly stole to discompose her own. The slip-shod 'Prentice from his Master's Door Had pard the Dirt, and sprinkled round the Floor. Now Moll had whirl'd her Mop with dextrous Airs, Prepar'd to scrub the Entry and the Stairs. The Youth * with broomy Stumps began to trace TheKennel-Edge, where Wheels had worn the Place. The Small-Coal Man was heard with Cadence deep; Till drown'd in shriller Notes of Chimney-sweep. Duns at his Lordship's Gate began to meet ; And Brick-duft Moll had scream'd throʻ half a Street. The Turnkey now his Flock returning sees, Duly let out a-Nights to steal for Fees. The watchful Bailiffs take their silent Stands; And School-boys lag with Satchels in their Hands.


Triplets and Alexandrians were brought in by Dryden, and other Poet in the Reign of CHARLES II. They were the mere Effect of Hafte, Idleness, and Want of Money; and have been wholely avoided by the best Poets, since these Verses were written.

* To find old Nails.

The Virtues of SID HA ME T, the

Magician's Rod.

Written in the Year 1712.


HE Rod was but a harmless Wand,

While Moses held it in his Hand; But soon 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 honest English Wood,
That senseless in a Corner stood,
Till metamorphos'd by his Grasp,
It grew an all-devouring Asp;
Would hiss, and sting, and roll and twist,
By the mere Virtue of his Fift:
But when he laid it down, as quick
Resum'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 resumes
The peaceful State of common Brooms.

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They tell us fomething strange 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 stands erect,
Scorning to shew 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 seep 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 inany Souls to Hell.

SID's Rod was slender, 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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