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Should at their Peril, without fail,
Come and appear, and save their Bail.
All met, and Silence thrice proclaim'd,
One Lawyer to each Side was nam'd.
The Judge discover'd in her face,
Refentments for her late Disgrace ;
And, full of Anger, Shame, and Grief,
Directed them to mind their Brief;
Nor spend their Time to fhew their Reading i
She'd have a summary Proceeding.
She gathar'd, under ev'ry Head,
The Sum of what each Lawyer faids
Gave her own Reasons last; and then
Decreed the Cause against the Men ;
BŲt, in a weighty Case like the To thew she did not judge amiss, Which evil Tongues might else report She made a Speech in open Court ; Wherein she grievously complains, " How she was cheated by the Swains s On whose Petition, (humbly shewing, That Women were not worth the wooing; And, that unless the Sex would mend, The Race of Lovers soon must end :) 66 She was at Lord knows what Expence, 5. To form a Nymph of Wit and Sense ; “ A Model for her Sex design'd, « Who never could onę Lover find.
She saw her Favour was misplac'd ; $6 The Fellows had a wretched Taste ;
She needs must tell them to their Face, « They were a stupid, senseless Race: “ And were she to begin agen, " She'd study to reform the Men ; 6 Or add some Grains of Folly more “ To Women than they had before, “ To put them on an equal Foot ; " And this, or nothing else, wou'd doft, “ This might their mutual Fancy strike, “ Since ev'ry Being loves its Like.
“ But now, repenting what was done, « She left all. Business to her Son; “ She puts the Wo
the World in his Poffeffion, 66 And let him use it at Difcretion,
The Cry'r was order'd to dismiss
The Court; who made his last a yes !
The Goddess would no longer wait;
But rising from her Chair of State,
Left all below at Six and Şevin;
Harness'd her Doves, and flew to Heavin.
Written in the Year 1712.
MIDAS, " we are in Story told,
Turn'd ev'ry thing he touch'd to Gold:
He chipt his Bread; the Pieces round
Glitter'd like Spangles on the Ground:
A Codling, 'ere it went his Lip in,
Would straight become a Golden Pippin:
He calld for Drink ; you saw him sup
Potable Gold in Golden Cup.
His empty Paunch that he might fill,
He fuckt his Vittels thro' a Quill;-
Untoucht it pass'd between his Grinders,
Ort had been happy for Gold-finders.
He cockt his Hat, you would have said
Mambrino's Helm adorn'd his Head.
Whene'er he chanc'd his Hands to lay
On Magazines of Corn, or Hay,
Gold ready coin'd appear’d, instead
Of paulery Provender and Bread:
Hence we are by wise Farmers told,
Old Hay is equal to old Gold;
And hence a Critick deep maintains,
We learnt to weigh our Gold by Grains:
This Fool had got a lucky Hit, And People fancy'd he had Wit:
Two Gods their Skill in Mufick try'd,
And both chose Midas to decide ;
He against Phæbus' Harp decreed,
it for Pan's Oaten Reed ;
The God of Wit, to shew his Grudge,
Clapt Ajes Ears upon the Judge;
A goodly Pair, erect and wide,
Which he could neither gild, nor hide,
And now the Virtue of his Hands,
Was lost among Paštolus’ Sands,
Against whose Torrent while he swims,
The Golden Scurf peels off his Limbs :
Fame spreads the News, and People travel
From far, to gather golden Gravel;
Midas, expos’d to all their Jeers,
Had lost his Art, and kept his Ears.
This Tale inclines the gentle Reader,
To think upon a certain Leader ;
To whom, from Midas down, descends
That Virtue in the Fingers Ends :
What else by Perquisites are meant,
By Pensions, Bribes, and Three per Cent?
By Places and Commisions Told;
And turning Dung itself to Gold ?
By starving in the Midst of Store,
As t'other Midas did before?
None e'er did modern Midas chuse Subject or Patron of his Muse;
But found him thus their Merit scan,
That Phabus must give Place to Pan:
He values not the Poet's Praise,
Nor will exchange his Plumbs for Bays:
To Pan alone, rich Misers call,
And there's the Jest, for Pan is ALL:
Here English Wits will be to seek,
Howe'er, 'tis all one in the Greek.
Besides, it plainly now appears, Qur Midas too hath Alles Ears ; Where every Fool his Mouth applics, , And whispers in a thousand Lies ; Such gross Delusions could not pass, Thro' any Ears but of an Ass.
But Gold defiles with frequent Touch 3
There's nothing fouls the Hands so much':
And Scholars give it for the Cause,
Of British Midas' dirty Paws;
Which while the Senate ftrove to scower,
They washt away the Chymick Power.
While he his utmost Strength apply'd,
To swim against this pop'lar Tide,
The golden Spoils flew off apace ;
Here fell a Pension, there a Place :
The Torrent, merciless, imbibes
Commisions, Perquifites, and Bribes ;
By their own Weight funk to the Bottom;
Much Good may do 'em, that have caught 'em.