Bat, let the cause be what it will,

In half a month fhe looks fo thin, That Flamsteedt can, with all his skill, See but her forehead and her chin.

Yet, as fhe waftes, fhe grows difcreet, Till midnight never fhows her head: So rotting Celia ftrolls the street,

When fober folks are all a-bed:

For fure, if this be Luna's fate,
Poor Celia, but of mortal race,
In vain expects a longer date

To the materials of ber face.

When Mercury her treffes mows,

To think of black-lead combs is vain;

No painting can reftore a nofe,

Nor will her teeth return again.

Ye powers, who over love prefide!

Since mortal beauties drop fo foon, If ye would have us well fupply'd,

Send us new nymphs with each nero moon}

THE PROGRESS OF POETRY.
THE farmer's goofe, who in the ftubble
Mas fed without restraint or trouble,
Grown fat with corn, and fitting still,
Can fcarce get o'er the barn-door fill;
And hardly waddles forth to cool
Her belly in the neighbouring pool;
Nor loudly cackles at the door;
For cackling fhows the goofe is poor.
But, when she must be turn'd to graze,
And round the barren common frays,
Hard exercife and harder fare

Soon make my dame grow lank and fpare:
Her body light, fhe tries her wings,
And fcorns the ground, and upward fprings;
While all the parish, as the flies,
Hear founds harmonious from the skies.
Such is the poet fresh in pay
(The third night's profits of his play);
His morning-draughts till noon can fwill
Among his brethren of the quill:
With good roast beef his belly full,
Grown lazy, foggy, fat, and dull,
Deep funk in plenty and delight,

What poet

e'er could take his flight?
Or ftuff'd with phlegm up to the throat,
What poet e'er could fing a note?
Nor Pegafus could bear the load
Along the high celeftial road;

The feed, opprefs'd, would break his girth,
To raife the lumber from the earth.

But view him in another scene,
When all his drink is Hippocrene,
His money spent, his patrons fail,
His credit out for cheese and ale;
His two-years coat fo smooth and bare,
Through every thread it lets in air;
With hungry meals his body pin'd,

His

guts and belly full of wind;

And, like a jockey for a race,

His flesh brought down to flying cafe Now his exalted fpirit loaths Jacumbrances of food and clothes;

And up he rifes, like a vapour,
Supported high on wings of paper;
He finging flies, and flying fings,
While from below all Grub-ftreet rings.

THE SOUTH SEA PROJECT. 1721.

Apparent rari nantes in gurgite vasto,

"Arma virum, tabula que, et Troia gaza per undas."

YE wife philofophers, explain

What magic makes our money rife, When dropp'd into the Southern main; Or do thefe jugglers cheat our eyes? Put in your money fairly told; Prefto! be gone-'Tis here again : Ladies and gentlemen, behold, Here's every piece as big as ten. Thus in a bafon drop a fhilling

Then fill the veffel to the brim; You fhall obferve, as you are filling, The ponderous metal feems to fwint. It rifes both in bulk and height,

Behold it fwelling like a fope; The liquid medium cheats your fight; Behold it mounted to the top! In ftock three hundred thousand pound; I have in view a lord's eftate; My manors all contiguous round;

A coach and fix, and ferv'd in plate! Thus, the deluded bankrupt raves;

Pute all upon a defperate bet;
Then plunges in the Southern waves,
Dipt over head and ears-in debt.
So, by a calenture misled,

The mariner with rapture fees,
On the fmooth ocean's azure bed,
Enamel'd fields and verdant trees:
With eager hafte he longs to rove

In that fantaftic scene, and thinks
It must be fome enchanted grove;
And in he leaps, and down he finks.
Five hundred chariots, juft befpoke,

Are funk in thefe devouring waves, The horfes drown'd, the harnefs broke, And here the owners find their graves. Like Pharaoh, by directors led;

They with their spoils went fafe before; His chariots, tumbling out the dead, Lay fhatter'd on the Red-Sea fhore. Rais'd up on Hope's afpiring plumes, The young adventurer o'er the deep An eagle's flight and ftate affumes,

And fcorns the middle-way to keep. On paper wings he takes his flight, With wax the father bound them faft; The wax is melted by the height, And down the towering boy is caft.

A moralift might here explain

VIRG

2

Describe his fall into the main,'

And from a fable form a truth. His wings are his paternal rent,

He melts the wax at every flame; His credit funk, his money fpent,

In Southern Seas he leaves bis name. Inform us, you that beft can tell,

Why in yon' dangerous gulph profound, Where hundreds and where thoufands fell, Fools chiefly float, the wife are drown'd? So have I feen from Severn's brink

A flock of geefe jump down together; Swim, where the bird of Jove would fink, And, fwimming, never wet a feather. But, I affirm, 'tis falfe in fact,

Directors better knew their tools; We fee the nation's credit crack'd,

Each knave hath made a thousand fools.

One fool may from another win,

And then get off with money flor'd; But, if a fharper once comes in,

He throws at all, and fweeps the board.

As fishes on each other prey,

The great ones fwallowing up the fmall; So fares it in the Southern Sea;

The whale directors eat up all.
When flock is high, they come between,
Making by fecond-hand their offers;
Then cunningly retire unfeen,

With each a million in his coffers.
So when upon a moon-fhine night
An afs was drinking at a ftream;
A cloud arofe, and ftopp'd the light,
By intercepting every beam:
The day of judgment will be foon

(Cries out a fage among the crowd);
An afs hath fwallow'd up the moon!
(The moon lay fafe behind a cloud).
Each poor fubfcriber to the fea

Sinks down at once, and there he lies Directors fall as well as they,

Their fall is but a trick to rife.

So fishes, rifing from the main,

Can foar with moiften'd wings on high;
The moisture dry'd, they fink again,
And dip their fins again to fly.

Undone at play, the female troops
Come here their loffes to retrieve;
Ride o'er the waves in fpacious hoops,
Like Lapland witches in a fieve.
Thus Venus to the fea defcends,

As poets feign; but where's the moral? It fhows the Queen of love intends

To fearch the deep for pearl and coral.

The fea is richer than the land,

I heard it from my grannam's mouth

Which now I clearly understand,

For by the fea fhe meant the South.

Thus by directors we are told,

"Pray, Gentlemen, believe your eyes;

Our ocean's cover'd o'er with gold,
Look round and fee how thick it lies:
We, Gentlemen, are your affifters,
We'll come, and hold you by the chin.-"
Alas! all is not gold that glifters,

Ten thoufand fink by leaping in.

Oh! would those patriots be so kind,

Here in the deep to wash their hands,
Then, like Pactolus, we fhould find
The fea indeed had golden fands.
A fhilling in the bath you fling;
The filver takes a nobler hue,
By magic virtue in the fpring,
And feems a guinea to your view.
But, as a guinea will not pafs

At market for a farthing more,
Shown through a multiplying-glafs,
Than what it always did before:
So caft it in the Southern Seas,

Or view it through a jobber's bill; Put on what spectacles you please, Your guinea's but a guinea ftill. One night a fool into a brook

Thus from a hillock looking down, The golden fars for guineas took, And filver Cynthia for a crown. The point he could no longer doubt; He ran, he leapt into the flood; There fprawl'd awhile, and fearce got out, All cover'd o'er with flime and mud. "Upon the water caft thy bread,

"And after many days thou'lt find it;" But gold upon this ocean fpread

Shall fiuk, and leave no mark behind it. There is a gulph, where thoufands fell,

Here all the bold adventurers came,
A narrow found, though deep as hell;
'Change-Alley is the dreadful name.
Nine times a day it ebbs and flows;
Yet he that on the furface lies,
Without a pilot feldom knows
The time it falls, or when 'twill rife.

Subfcribers here by thoufands float,
And joftle one another down;

Each paddling in his leaky boat;

And here they fifh for gold, and drown.

*Now bury'd in the depth below,
"Now mounted up to heaven again,

They reel and tagger to and fro,

"At their wits end, like drunken men." Mean time fecure on Garraway † cliffs, A favage race by fhipwrecks fed, Lie waiting for the founder'd fkiffs, And ftrip the bodies of the dead. But thefe, you fay, are factious lies, From fome malicious Tory's brain; For, where Directors get a prize,

The Swifs and Dutch whole millions drain,

* Pfali cvii. ↑ 4 coffee-boife in 'Change-Alley.

Thus, when by rooks a lord is ply'd,
Some cully often wins a bet,
Ey venturing on the cheating fide,
Though not into the fecret let.

While fome build caftles in the air,
Directors build them in the feas;
Sufribers plainly fee them there,
For fools will fee as wife men please.
Thus oft' by mariners are shown
(Unlefs the men of Kent are liars)
Earl Godwin's caftles overflown.
And palace-roofs, and steeple-spires.
Mark where the fly Directors creep,
Nor to the fhore approach too nigh!
The monsters neftle in the deep,

To feize you in your paffing by.
Then, like the dogs of Nile, be wife,
Who, taught by instinct how to fhun
The crocodile, that lurking lies,

Run as they drink, and drink and run.

Anteus could, by magic charms,
Recover ftrength when'er he fall;
Alcides held him in his arms,
And fent him up in air to bell.
Dirnters, thrown into the fea,

Recover ftrength and vigour there;
But may be tam'd another way,
Sufpended for a while in air.

Directors! for 'tis you I warn,

By long experience we have found
What plannet rul'd when you were born:
We fee you never can be drown'd.

Beware, nor over-bulky grow,
Nor come within your cully's reach;
For, if the fea fhould fink fo low
To leave you dry upon the beach,
You'll owe your ruin to your bulk:
Your foes already waiting stand,
To tear you like a founder'd hulk,
While you lie helpless on the sand.
Thus, when a whale has loft the tide,
The coafters crowd to feize the spoil;
The moniter into parts divide,
And trip the bones, and melt the oil.
Oh! may some weffern tempeft sweep
Thefe locuft: whom our fruits have fed,
That plague Directors to the deep,

Driv'n from the South-Sea to the Red!
May he, whom Nature's laws obey,
Who lift the poor and finks the proud,
Quiet the raging of the fea,

"And fill the madness of the crowd!" Bat never fhall our ifle have rest,

Till thofe devouring frine run down, (The devils leaving the poffeft) And headlong in the waters drown. The nation then too late will find, Computing all their coft and troub's, Director promifes but wind, South-Sea at beft a mighty bullits VOL. IX.

THE DOG AND SHADOW.

ORE cibum portans catulus dum fpectat in undis,
Apparet liquido prædæ melioris imago:
Dum fpeciofa diu damna admiratur, et alte
Ad latices inhiat, cadit imo vortice præceps
Ore cibus, nec non fimulachrum corripit una.
Occupat ille avibus deceptis faucibus umbram;
Illudit fpecies, ac dentibus aëra mordet.

TO A FRIEND,

Who had been much abufed in many different Libels

THE greatest monarch may be stabb'd by night,
And fortune help the murderer in his flight;
The vileft ruffian may commit a rape,
Yet fafe from injur'd innocence efcape;
And calumny, by working under ground,
Can, unreveng'd, the greatest merit wound.
What's to be done? Shall wit and learning choose
To live obfcure, and have no fame to lofe?
By cenfure frighted out of honour's road,
Nor dare to use the gifts by Heaven bestow'd?
Or fearless enter in through virtue's gate,
And buy diftinction at the dearest rate?

BILLET TO THE COMPANY OF PLAYERS.

THE inclofed Prologue is formed upon the story of the Secretary's not fuffering you to act, unless you would pay him 300l. per annum ; upon which you got a licence from the Lord Mayor to act as ftrollers.

The Prologue fupposes, that, upon your being forbidden to act, a company of country ftrollers came and hired the Playhouse, and your clothes, &c. to act in.

THE PROLOGUE.

OUR fet of ftrollers, wandering up and down,
Hearing the houfe was empty, came to town;
And, with a licence from our good Lord Mayor,
Went to one Griffith, formerly a player;
Him we perfuaded, with a moderate bribe,
To speak to Erlington and all the tribe,
To let our company fupply their places,

And hire us out their fcenes, and clothes, and faces.
Is not the truth the truth? Look full on me;
I am not Erlington, nor Griffith he.
When we perform, look fharp among our crew,
There's
's not a creature here you ever knew.
The former folks were fervants to the king;
We, humble ftrollers, always on the wing.
Now, for my part, I think upon the whole,
Rather than ftarve, a better man would firol'.

Stay, let me fee-Three hundred pounds a year,
For leave to act in town! "Tis plaguy dear.
Now, here's a warrant; Gallants, please to mark,
For three thirteens and fixpence to the clerk.
Three hundred pounds! Were I the price to fix,
The public fhould bestow the actors fix.
A fcore of guineas, given underhand,
For a good word or fo, we understand.

To help an honeft lad, that's out of place,
May coft a crown or fo; a common cafe:
And, in a crew, 'tis no injuftice thought
To fhip a rogue, and pay him not a groat.
But, in the chronicles of former ages,
Who ever heard of fervants paying wages?

I pity Erlington with all my heart;
Would he were here this night to act my part!
I told him what it was to be a stroller;
How free we acted, and had no comptroller:
In every town we wait on Mr. Mayor,
First get a licence, then produce our ware;
We found a trumpet, or we beat a drum;
Huzza! the (school-boys roar) the players are come!
And then we cry, to fpur the bumpkins on,
Gallants, by Tuesday next we must be gone.
3 told him, in the smootheft way I could,
All this and more, yet it would do no good.
But Erlington, tears falling from his cheeks,
He that has fhone with Betterton and Wilks,
To whom our country has been always dear,
Who chose to leave his dearest pledges here,
Owns all your favours, here intends to stay,
And, as a ftroller, act in every play:
And the whole crew this refolution takes,
To live and die all ftrollers for your fakes;
Not frighted with an ignominious name,
For your displeasure is their only shame.

A pox in Elrington's majestic tone! Now to a word of business in our own.

Gallants, next Thursday night will be our last; Then, without fail, we pack up for Belfast. Lofe not your time, nor our diverfions mifs, The next we act shall be as good as this.

EPIGRAM.

GREAT folks are of a finer mold;
Lord! how politely they can fcold!
While a coarfe English tongue will itch
For whore and rogue, and dog and bitch.

PROLOGUE

TO A PLAY FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE DISTRESSED WEAVERS, BY DR. SHERIDAN.

Spoken by Mr. Erlington, 1721.

GREAT ery and little wool-is now become
The plague and proverb of the weaver's loom :
No wool to work on, neither weft nor warp;
Their pockets empty, and their ftomach's fharp.
Provok'd, in loud complaints to you they cry:
Ladies, relieve the weavers, or they die!
Forfake your filks for ftuffs; nor think it strange
To fhift your clothes, fince you delight in change.
One thing with freedom I'll presume to tell-
The men will like you every bit as well.

See, I am drefs'd from top to toe in stuff;
And, by my troth, I think I'm fine enough:
My wife admires me more, and fwears the never,
In any drefs, beheld me look fo clever.
And, if a man be better in fuch ware,
What great advantage must it give the fair!
Our wool from lambs of innocence proceeds:
Silks come from maggots, callicoes from weeds:
Hence 'tis by fad experience that we find
Ladies in filks to vapours much inclin'd-
And what are they but maggots in the mind?

For which I think it reafon to conclude
That clothes may change our temper like our food,
Chintzes are gaudy, and engage our eyes
Too much about the party-colour'd dyes:
Although the luftre is from you begun,
We fee the rainbow, and neglect the fun.

How fweet and innocent's the country maid, With fmall expence in native wool array'd; Who copies from the fields her homely green, While by her fhepherd with delight the's feen! Should our fair ladies drefs like her in wool, How much more lovely, and how beautiful, Without their Indian drapery, they'd prove, Whilft wool would help to warm us into love! Then, like the famous Argonauts of Greece, We'd all contend to gain the Golden Fleece!

EPILOGUE BY THE DEAN.

SPOKEN BY MR. GRIFFITH.

WHO dares affirm this is no pious age,
When charity begins to tread the stage?
When actors, who, at beft, are hardly favers,
Will give a night of benefit to Weavers?
Stay-let me fee, how finely will it found!
Imprimis, From his Grace* an hundred pound.
Peers, clergy, gentry, all are benefactors;
And then comes in the item of the actors.
Item, The actors freely gave a day-
The Poet had no more who made the play.

But whence this wondrous charity in players?
They learnt it not at Sermons, or at Prayers:
Under the rofe, fince here are none but friends,
(To own the truth) we have fome private ends.
Since waiting-women, like exacting jades,
Hold up the prices of their old brocades;
We'll drefs in manufactures made at home,
Equip our kings and generals at The Comb t.
We'll rig from Meath-street Egypt's haughty

queen,

And Antony fhall court her in ratteen.
In blue fballoon fhall Hannibal be clad,
And Scipio trail an Irish purple plaid.
In drugget dreft, of thirteen pence a yard,
See Philip's fon amidst his Persian guard;
And proud Roxana, fir'd with jealous rage,
With fifty yards of crape fhall fweep the stage.
In fhort, our kings and princeffes within
Are all refolv'd this project to begin;
And you, our fubjects, when you here resort,
Muft imitate the fafhion of the Court.

Oh! could I fee this audience clad in fluff, Though money's fcarce, we fhould have trade enough:

But chintz, brocades, and lace, take all away,
And scarce a crown is left to fee a play.
Perhaps you wonder whence this friendship fprings
Between the Weavers and us Play-house Kings;
But Wit and Weaving had the fame beginning;
Pallas first taught us Poetry and Spinning :
And, next, obferve how this alliance fits,
For Weavers now are just as poor as Wits:

Their brother quill-men, workers for the stage,
For forry fluff can get a crown a page;
But Weavers will be kinder to the Players,
And fell for twenty-pence a yard of theirs.
And, to your knowledge, there is often lefs in
The Poet's wit, than in the Player's drefling.

A POEM, BY DR. DELANY,

ON THE PRECEDING PROLOGUE AND EPILOGUE. "Fœmineo generi tribuantur."

THE mufes, whom the richest filks array,
Refufe to fling their thining gowns away:
The pencil clothes the nine in bright brocades,
And gives each colour to the pictur'd maids;
Far above mortal-drefs the fifters shine,
Pride in their Indian robes, and must be fine.
And shall two bards in concert rhyme and huff,
And fret these mufes with their play-house stuff?
The player in mimic piety may storm,
Deplore the comb, and bid her heroes arm :
The arbitrary mob, in paltry rage,

May curfe the belles and chintzes of the age:
Yet ftill the artist worm her filk shall share,
And fpin her thread of life in fervice of the fair.
The cotton-plant, whom fatire cannot blast,
Shall bloom the favourite of thefe realms, and

Like

laft;

yours, ye fair, her fame from cenfure grows, Prevails in charms, and glares above her foes: Your injur'd plant fhall meet a loud defence, And be the emblem of your innocence.

Some bard, perhaps, whofe landlord was a

weaver,

Penn'd the low prologue, to return a favour:
Some neighbour wit, that would be in the vogue,
Work'd with his friend, and wove the epilogue.
Who weaves the chaplet, or provides the bays,
For fuch wool-gathering fonnetteers as these?
Hence then, ye home-fpun witlings, that perfuade
Mits Chloe to the fashion of her maid.
Shall the wide hoop, that standard of the town,
Thus act fubfervient to a poplin gown?
Who'd fmell of wool all over? Tis enough
The under-petticoat be made of ftuff.
Lord to be wrapt in flannel juft in May,
When the fields drefs'd in flowers appear fo

gay!
And fhall not Mifs be flower'd as well as they.
In what weak colours would the plaid appear,
Work'd to a quilt, or studded in a chair!
The kin, that vies with filk, would fret with stuff;
Or who could bear in bed a thing so rough?
Ye knowing fair, how eminent that bed,
Where the chintze diamonds with the filken
thread,

eye,

Where rustling curtains call the curious
And boaft the streaks and paintings of the sky!
Of flocks they'd have your milky ticking full;
And all this for the benefit of wool!

16

But where," fay they,

"these weavers,

"hall we bestow

That spread our ftreets, and are fuch piteous

cravers?"

The filk-worms (brittle beings!) prone to fate, Demand their care to make their webs complete:

These may they tend, their promifes receive; We cannot pay too much for what they give!

ON GAULSTOWN HOUSE. BY DR. DELANY *.

'Tis fo old, and fo ugly, and yet so convenient, You're fometimes in pleasure, though often in pain in't: [eafe in 't; 'Tis fo large, you may lodge a few friends with You may turn and ftretch at your length if you please in't:

'Tis fo little, the family live in a prefs in't, And poor Lady Betty has fcarce room to dress

in't:

[in't; 'Tis fo cold in the winter, you can't bear to lie And fo hot in the fummer, you 're ready to fry in't: [a tun; 'Tis fo brittle, 'twould fcarce bear the weight of Yet fo ftaunch, that it keeps out a great deal of fun : [through it, 'Tis fo crazy, the weather with ease beats quite And you 're forc'd every year in fome part to re-. new it.

'Tis fo ugly, fo ufeful, fo big, and fo little;
'Tis fo ftaunch, and fo crazy, fo ftrong, and fe
brittle;

'Tis at one time fo hot, and another fo cold;
It is part of the new, and part of the old;
It is just half a bleffing, and just half a curse ---
I with then, dear George, it were better or worfe

THE COUNTRY-LIFE.

PART OF A SUMMER SPENT AT GAULSTOWNHOUSE.

THALIA, tell in sober lays,

How George, Nim §, Dan , Dean ¶, pafs their days;

And, fhould our Gaulton's art grow fallow,
Yet Neget quis carmina Gallo?
Here (by the way) by Gallus mean I
Not Sheridan, but friend Delany.
Begin, my Mufe. First from our bowers
We fally forth at different hours;
At feven the Dean, in night-gown drest,
Goes round the houfe to wake the rest;
At nine, grave Nim, and George facetious,
Go to the Dean, to read Lucretius;
At ten, my lady comes and hectors,
And kiffes George, and ends our lectures;
And when she has him by the neck fait,
Halls him, and scolds us down to breakfast..

Rev. Daniel Jackson.

Dr. Swift.