Money, the life-blood of the nation,
Corrupts and stagnates in the veius,
Triefs a proper circulation

Its motion and its heat maintains.

Because 'tis lordly not to pay,
Quakers and aldermen in state
Like peers have levees every day
Of duns attending at their gate.
We want our money on the nail;
The banker's ruin'd if he pays:
They seem to act an ancient tale;
The birds are met to strip the jays.
Riches, the wifeft monarch fings,

"Make pinions for themselves to fly:"
They fly like bats on parchment wings,
And geefe their filver plumes fupply.
No money left for squandering heirs!
Bills turn the lenders into debtors:
The with of Nero now is theirs,

"That they had never known their letters."
Conceive the works of midnight hags,
Tormenting fools behind their backs:
Thus bankers o'er their bills and bags
Sits íqueezing images of wax.

Conceive the whole enchantment broke;
The witches left in open air,
With power no more than other folk,
Expos'd with all their magic ware.

So powerful are a banker's bills,

Where creditors demand their due;
They break up counters, doors, and tills,
And leave the empty chefts in view.
Thus when an earthquake lets in light
Upon the god of gold and bell,
Caable to endure the fight,

He hides within his darkest cell.
As when a conjuror takes a lease
From Satan for a term of years,
The tenant's in a dismal cafe,

Whene'er the bloody bond oppears. A baited banker thus defponds,

From his own hand forefees his fall;
They have his foul, who have his bonds
"Tis like the writing on the wall.
How will the catiff wretch be scar'd,
When first he finds himself awake

At the laft trumpet unprepar'd,
And all his grand account to make!

For in that univerfal call

;

Few bankers will to heaven be mounters; They'll cry, "Ye shops, upon us fall!

Conceal and cover us, ye counters!" When aber hands the feales fhall hold, And they in men and angels' fight Produc'd with all their bills and gold, "Weigh'd in the balance, and found light!”

DESCRIPTION OF AN IRISH FEAST, Tranflated almost literally out of the original Irifb, 1720.

OLOURK's noble fare will ne'er be forgot,

His revels to keep, we fup and we dine
On seven score theep, fat bullocks, and swine.
Uufquebaugh to our feaft in pails was brought up,
An hundred at least, and a madder our cup.
O there is the fport! we rife with the light
In diforderly fort from fnoring all night.
O how was I trick'd my pipe it was broke,
My pocket was pick'd, I loft my new cloak.
I'm rifled, quoth Nell, of mantle and kercher † :
Why then fare them well, the de'el take the
fearcher.

Come, harper, strike up; but, first, by your favour,
Boy, give us a cup: ah! this has fome favour.
Orourk's jolly boys ne'er dreamt of the matter,
Till, rous'd by the noise and musical clatter,
They bounce from their neft, no longer will tarry,
They rife ready dreft, without one ave-mary. [ing;
They dance in a ronnd, cutting capers, and ramp-
A mercy the ground did not burst with their
ftamping.

The floor is all wet with leaps and with jumps, While the water and sweat splish-splash in their pumps.

Blefs you late and early, Laughlin O' Enagin!
By my band, you dance rarely, Margery Grinagin.
Bring ftraw for our bed, shake it down to the feet,
Then over us fpread the winnowing sheet:
To fhow I don't flinch, fill the bowl up again;
Then give us a pinch of your fneezing, a yean §.
Good Lord! what a fight, after all their good
cheer,

For people to fight in the midst of their beer!
They rife from their feast, and hot are their brains,
A cubit at least the length of their fkeans |.
What ftabs and what cuts, what clattering of flicks;
What strokes on the guts, what bastings and kicks!
With cudgels of oak well harden'd in flame,
An hundred heads broke, an hundred struck lame.
You churl, I'll maintain my father built Lusk,
The Castle of Slain, and Carrick Drumrusk:
The Earl of Kildare, and Moynalta his brother,
As great as they are, I was nurft by their mother.
Afk that of old madam; fhe'll tell you who's who
As far up as Adam, fhe knows it is true.
Come down with that beam, if cudgels are scarce.
A blow on the weam, or a kick on the a-se.

We'll buy English filks for our wives and our daughters,

In fpite of his deanfhip and journeyman Waters.
In England the dead in woollen are clad,

The dean and his printer then let us cry fy on;
To be cloth'd like a carcafe, would make a Teague
Since a living dog better is than a dead lion. [mad,
Our wives they grow fullen
At wearing of woollen,
And all we poor fhop-keepers muft our horns
pull in.
[daughters,
Then we'll buy English filks for our wives and our
In fpite of his deanihip and journeyman Waters.
Whoever our trading with England would hinder,
To inflame both the nations do plainly confpire;
Because Irish linen will foon turn to tinder,
And wool it is greafy, and quickly takes fire.
Therefore I affure you,

Our noble grand jury, When they faw the dean's book, they were in a great fury.

They would buy English filks for their wives and their daughters,

In fpite of his deanfhip and journeyman Waters.
This wicked rogue Waters, who always is finning,
And before corum nobus so oft has been call'd,
Henceforward fhall print neither pamphlets nor
linen,
[mawl'd:

And, if fwearing can do't, fhall be fwingingly
And as for the dean,

You know whom I mean,

If the printer will 'peach him, he'll fcarce come off clean. [daughters, Then we'll buy English filks for our wives and our In spite of his deanfhip and journeyman Waters.

THE PROGRESS OF BEAUTY.

1720.

WHEN first Diana leaves her bed,
Vapours and steams her looks difgrace,
A frowzy dirty-colour'd red

Sits on her cloudy wrinkled face:
But by degrees, when mounted high,
Her artificial face appears
Down from her window in the fky,

Her fpots are gone, her visage clears.
'Twixt earthly females and the moon
All parallels exactly run:
If Celia fhould appear too foon,

Alas, the nymph would be undone !
To fee her from her pillow rife,

All reeking in a cloudy fteam, Crack'd lips, foul teeth, and gummy eyes, Poor Strephon! how would he blafpheme! Three colours, black, and red, and white, So graceful in their proper place, Remove them to a different fcite, They form a frightful hideous face: For instance, when the lily skips Into the precincts of the rofe, And takes poffeffion of the lips, Leaving the purple to the nofe: $

So Celia went entire to bed,

All her complexion fafe and found; But, when the rofe, white, black, and red, Though ftill in fight, had chang'd their ground. The black, which would not be confin'd, A more inferior ftation ieeks; Leaving the fiery red behind,

And mingles in her muddy checks.
But Celia can with eafe reduce,

By help of pencil, paint and brush,
Each colour to its place and use,
And teach her cheeks again to blush.
She knows her early felf no more,

But fill'd with admiration ftands;
As other painters oft' adore

The workmanship of their own hands.
Thus, after four important hours,

Celia's the wonder of her fex:
Say, which among the heavenly powers
Could caufe fuch marvellous effects?

Venus, indulgent to her kind,

Gave women all their hearts could wish,
When first she taught them where to find
White lead and Lufitanian* dish.
Love with white-lead cements his wings:
White-lead was fent us to repair
Two brightest, brittleft, earthly things,
A lady's face, and China-ware.
She ventures now to lift the fash :

The window is her proper fphere:
Ah, lovely nymph! be not too rash,
Nor let the beaux approach too near.
Take pattern by your fifter star:

Delude at once and bless our fight; When you are seen, be feen from far, And chiefly choose to fhine by night. But art no longer can prevail,

When the materials all are gone; The best mechanic hand muft fail, Where nothing's left to work upon. Matter, as wife logicians fay,

Cannot without a form fubfift;
And form, fay I, as well as they,
Muft fail, if matter brings no grift:
And this is fair Diana's cafe;

For all aftrologers maintain,
Each night a bit drops off her face,
When mortals fay fhe's in her wane :

While Partridge + wifely fhows the cause
Efficient of the moon's decay,
That Cancer with his poisonous claws
Attacks her in the milky way:

But Gadbury, in art profound,

From her pale cheeks pretends to fhow,
That fwain Endymion is not found,
Or elfe that Mercury's her foe.

Eat, let the cause be what it will,

In half a month the looks fo thin, That Flamsteedt can, with all his fkill, See but her forehead and her chin. Yet, as the waftes, the grows difcreet,

Till midnight never shows 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 her face.

When Mercury her treffes mows,

To think of black-lead combs is vain;

No painting can restore a nose,

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 new moon !

THE PROGRESS OF POETRY.
THE farmer's goofe, who in the stubble
Has fed without restraint or trouble,
Grown fat with corn, and fitting ftill,
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 thows the goofe is poor.
But, when the must be turn'd to graze,
And round the barren common frays,
Hard exercise and harder fare

Soon make my dame grow lank and spare:
Her body light, she tries her wings,
And fcorns the ground, and upward springs;
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 roaft 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 fpent, his patrons fail,
His credit out for cheese and ale;
His two-years coat so 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 fefh brought down to flying cafe:
Now his exalted fpirit loaths
Incumbrances of food and clothes;

† John Flamsteed, the celebrated aftronomer royal.

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

THE SOUTH SEA PROJECT. 1721. "Apparent rari nantes in gurgite vasto, "Arma virum, tabulæque, et Troïa gaza per undas.” VIRG

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;
Preflo! 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 swim.
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 stock 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;

Puts all upon a desperate 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 smooth ocean's azure bed,
Enamel'd fields and verdant trees:
With eager hafte he longs to rove

In that fantaftic fcene, and thinks
It must be fome enchanted grove;
And in he leaps, and dozen he finks.
Five hundred chariots, just bespoke,

Are funk in thefe devouring waves,
The horfes drown'd, the harness 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 state 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
The rafhnefs of the Cretan youth;

Defcribe 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 spent,

In Southern Seas he leaves his name. Inform us, you that best 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 ftor'd; But, if a fearper once comes in,

He throws at all, and sweeps the board.

As fishes on each other prey,

The great ones fwallowing up the small; 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 swallow'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 shows 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 see 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 thousand fink by leaping in.

Oh! would thofe patriots be fo kind,

Here in the deep to wash their bands,
Then, like Pactolus, we should 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 spring,
And feenis 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 fpectacles you please,
Your guinea's but a guinea ftill.
One night a fool into a brook

Thus from a hillock looking down,
The golden flars 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 fcarce 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

Shal! fink, and leave no inark 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 thousands float,
And joftle one another down;
Each paddling in his leaky boat;

66

And here they fish for gold, and drown.

"Now bury'd in the depth below, "Now mounted up to heaven again, They reel and ftagger to and fro, "At their wits end, like drunken men? Mean time fecure on Garraway + cliffs,

خور

A favage race by fhipwrecks fed, Lie waiting for the founder'd fkiffs, And strip 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.