Then, furious he begins his March; Drives rattling o'er a brazen Arch: All ran to Pray'rs, both Priefts and Laity, When Jove, in Pity to the Town, THE Moral of this Tale is proper, WOOD B WOOD, an Infect. Written in the Year 1725. Y long Obfervation I have understood, The first is an Infect they call a Wood-Loufe, THE Loufe of the Wood for a Med'cine it us'd, *He was in Fayl for Debt. She She need be no more with the Jaundice possess't, Or fick of Obstructions, and Pains in her Cheft. THE Third is an Infect we call a Wood-Worm, That lies in old Wood like a Hare in her Form; With Teeth or with Claws it will bite or will scratch, And Chambermaids christen this Worm a DeathWatch: Because like a Watch it always cries Click: Then Woe be to thofe in the House who are fick: For, as fure as a Gun they will give up the Ghost If the Maggot cries Click when it scratches the Poft. But a Kettle of scalding hot Water injected, Infallibly cures the Timber affected; The Omen is broke, the Danger is over; The Maggot will dye, and the Sick will recover. Such a Worm was Will. Wood when he fcratcht at the Door Of a governing Statesman, or favorite Whore : The Death of our Nation it seem'd to foretell, And the Sound of his Brafs we took for our Knell, But But now, fince the Drapier hath heartilly maul'd I him, think the best Thing we can do is to fcald him." For which Operation there's nothing more proper Than the Liquor he deals in, his own melted Cop per; Unless, like the Dutch, you rather would boyl This Coyner of * Raps in a Cauldron of Oyl. Then chufe which you please, and let each bring a Faggot, For our Fear's at an End with the Death of the Maggot. ADVICE to the Grub-street Verfe-Writers. Written in the Year 1726. E Poets ragged and forlorn, YE Down from your Garrets hafte, Ye Rhimers, dead as foon as born, * A cant Word in Ireland for a counterfeit Half-penny. I KNOW I KNOW a Trick to make you thrive; O, 'tis a quaint Device: Your ftill-born Poems fhall revive, GET all your Verfes printed fair, And, Curl must have a special Care LEND thefe to Paper-fparing Pope; No Letter with an Envelope WHEN Pope has fill'd the Margins round, Why, then recal your Loan; Sell them to Curl for Fifty Pound, And fwear they are your own. Defire, |