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

While fome build caftles in the air,
Directors build them in the feas;
Subfcribers plainly fee them there,
For fools will fee as wife men please.
Thus oft' by mariners are shown
(Unless the men of Kent are liars)
Earl Godwin's caftles overflown.
And palace-roofs, and fteeple-fpires.
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 inftinct how to fhun
The crocodile, that lurking lies

Run as they drink, and drink and run.
Antxus could, by magic charms,
Recover ftrength when'er he fell;
Alcides held him in his arms,
And fent him up in air to hell.
Direars, thrown into the sea,
Recover ftrength and vigour there;
But may be tam'd another way,
Sufpended for a while in air.

Directers! for 'tis you I warn,

By long experience we have found What plannet rul'd when you were born: We see you never can be drown'd. Beware, nor over-bulky grow,

Nor come within your cully's reach ; For, if the fea should 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 fand. Thus, when a whale has loft the tide, The coafters crowd to feize the spoil; The monster into parts divide,

And strip the bones, and melt the oil. Oh! may fome western tempeft sweep Thefe locuffs whom our fruits have fed, That plague Directors to the deep,

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

"And till the madnefs of the crowd!" But never fhall our ifle have reft,

Till thofe devouring fwine 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 trouble, Directors' promises but wind, Sat-Sea at beft a mighty bullie 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 abused in many different Libels.

THE greatest monarch may be ftabb'd by night,
And fortune help the murderer in his flight;
The vileft ruffian may commit a rape,
Yet fafe from injur'd innocence escape;
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?

OUR fet of strollers, 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 not a creature here you ever knew.
The former folks were fervants to the king;
We, humble strollers, always on the wing.
Now, for my part, I think upon the whole,
Rather than ftarve, a better man would roll.

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.

D

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 playersare come!
And then we cry, to fpur the bumpkins on,
Gallants, by Tuesday next we must be gone.
I 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 deareft 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 difpleafure is their only fhame.

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

Gallants, next Thursday night will be our taft; 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 DISTRÊSSED WEAVERS, BY DR. SHERIDAN.

GREAT

Spoken by Mr. Erlington, 1721.

cry 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 ftrange To shift your clothes, fince you delight in change. One thing with freedom I'll prefume 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 she never, In any drefs, beheld me look fo clever. And, if a man be better in fuch ware, What great advantage nuft 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 sweet and innocent's the country maid, With small expence in native wool array'd; Who copies from the fields her homely green, While by her shepherd with delight she'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 ftage?
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 Combt. We'll rig from Meath-ftreet Egypt's haughty

queen,

And Antony fhall court her in ratteen.
In blue fealloon fhall Hannibal be clad,
And Scipio trail an Irish purple plaid.
In drugget dreit, 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, cur fubjects, when you here resort,
Muft imitate the fafhion of the Court.

Oh! could I fee this audience clad in fuff, 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 fpringe
Between the Weavers and us Play-houfe Kings;
But Wit and Weaving had the fame beginning;
Pallas firft taught us Poetry and Spinning:
And, next, obferve how this alliance fits,
For Weavers now are juft as poor as Wits:

Their brother quill-men, workers for the stage,
For forty Auf 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 dressing.

A POEM, BY DR. DELANY, ON THE PRECEDING PROLOGUE AND EPILOGUE. "Famineo generi tribuantur."

THE mules, whom the richest filks array,
Refuse to ding their thining gowns away:
The pencil clothes the nine in bright brocades,
And gives each colour to the pictur'd maids;
Far above mortal-dress the fifters fine,
Pride in their Indian robes, and must be fine,
And thall 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 til the artift worm her filk fhall fhare,
And pin her thread of life in fervice of the fair.
The cotton-plant, whom fatire cannot blast,
Shall boom the favourite of these realms, and
lat;

Like yours, ye fair, her fame from cenfure grows, Prevarts 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.
The weaves the chaplet, or provides the bays,
For foch wool-gathering fonnetteers as thefe?
Rece then, ye bome-pun witlings, that perfuade
M& Chloe to the fashion of her maid.
Shall the wide hoop, that standard of the town,
Thus aft fubiervient to a poplin gown?
Whe'd fmell of wool all over? 'Tis enough
The under-petticoat be made of stuff.
Lard! to be wrapt in flannel juft in May,
When the fields drefs'd in flowers appear fo
gay!

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

Where ruling curtains call the curious eye, And beat the freaks and paintings of the sky! Of Blocks they'd have your milky ticking full; And all this for the benefit of wool!

.

But where," fay they, "hall we bestow

"these weavers,

That spread our streets, and are fuch piteous cravers?"

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

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

ON GAULSTOWN HOUSE. BY DR. DELANY *.

'Tis fo old, and fo ugly, and yet so convenient, You're fometimes in pleafure, though often in pain in't: [ease in 't; 'Tis fo large, you may lodge a few friends with You may turn and stretch 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 eafe beats quite. And you 're torc'd every year in fome part to renew it.

'Tis fo ugly, fo ufeful, fo big, and fo little; 'Tis fo ftaunch, and fo crazy, fo ftrong, and fo 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 blefling, and just half a curfe...--
I with then, dear George, it were better or worse.

THE COUNTRY-LIFE.

PART OF A SUMMER SPENT AT GAULSTOWN⭑ HOUSE.

THALIA, tell in sober lays,

How George, Nim §, Dan ||, Dean ¶, pass 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. Firft from our bowers
We fally forth at different hours;
At feven the Dean, in night-gown dreft,
Goes round the house to wake the reft;
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 he has him by the neck fait,
Halls him, and scolds us down to breakfast.

*. The feat of George Rochfort, Efq. (father to the Earl of Belvidere); where Dr. Savift and an agreeable fet of friends fpent part of the fummer of 1721.

+ Daughter to the Earl of Drogheda, and the wife of Mr. Rochfort.

4 Mr. Rochfort.

His brother, Mr. John Rochfort, who was called Nimrod, from his great attachment to the chafe. Dr. Swift.

Rev. Daniel Jackson.

We fquander there an hour or more,
And then all hands, boys, to the oar;
All, heteroclite Dan except,
Who neither time nor order kept,
But, by peculiar whimfies drawn,
Peeps in the ponds to look for spawn;
O'erfees the work, or Dragon * rows,
Or mars a text, or mends his hofe;
Or---but proceed we in our journal---
At two, or after, we return all:
From the four elements afcending,
Warn'd by the bell, all folks come trembling:
From airy garrets fome defcend,
Some from the lake's remoteft end:

My Lord † and Dean the fire forfake;
Dan leaves the earthly spade and rake:
The loiterers quake, no corner hides them,
And Lady Betty foundly chides them.
Now water 's brought, and dinner 's done :
With "Church and King" the lady 's gone;
(Not reckoning half an hour we pafs
In talking o'er a moderate glass).
Dan, growing drowsy, like a thief
Steals off to dofe away his beef;

And this must pafs for reading Hammond---
While George and Dean go to backgammon.
George, Nim, and Dean, fet out at four,
And then again, boys, to the oar.
But when the fun goes to the deep,
(Not to disturb him in his fleep,
Or make a rumbling o'er his head,
His candle out, and he a-bed)
We watch his motions to a minute,
And leave the flood when he goes in it.
Now ftinted in the shortening day,
We go to prayers, and then to play,
Till fupper comes; and after that
We fit an hour to drink and chat.
'Tis late---the old and younger pairs,
By Adam lighted, walk up stairs.
The weary Dean goes to his chamber;
And Nim and Dan to garret clamber.
So when the circle we have run,
The curtain falls, and all is done.

I might have mention'd several facts,
Like epifodes between the acts;
And tell who lofes and who wins,
Who gets a cold, who breaks his shins;
How Dan caught nothing in his net,
And how the boat was overfet.
For brevity I have retrench'd

How in the lake the Dean was drench'd:
It would be an exploit to brag on,
How valiant George rode o'er the Dragon;
How fteady in the ftorm he fat,
And fav'd his oar, but loft his hat:
Now Nim (no hunter e'er could match him)
Still brings us hares, when he can catch them:
How fkilfully Dan mends his nets;

How fortune fails him when he fets:

Or how the Dean Delights to vex

The ladies, and lampoon their fex.

I might have told how oft' Dean Percivale
Difplays his pedantry unmerciful;
How haughtily he cocks his nose,
To tell what every school-boy knows;
And with his finger and his thumb,
Explaining, trikes oppofers dumb:
But now there needs no more be said on't,
Nor how his wife, that female pedant,
Shows all her fecrets of house-keeping;
For candies how the trucks her dripping;
Was forc'd to fend three miles for yeaft,
To brew her ale, and raise her pafte;
Tells every thing that you can think of,
How the cur'd Charley of the chincough;
What gave her brats and pigs the measles,
And how her doves were kill'd by weafels;
How Jowler howl'd, and what a fright
She had with dreams the other night.

But now, fince I have gone fo far on,
A word or two of Lord Chief Baron;
And tell how little weight he fets
On all Whig papers and Gazettes;
But for the politics of Pue,
Thinks every fyllable is true.

And fince he owns the King of Sweden
Is dead at last, without evading,

Now all his hopes are in the Czar :

66

Why, Muscovy is not fo far:

"Down the Black Sea, and up the Streights, "And in a month he's at your gates;

66

66

Perhaps, from what the packet brings,

By Christmas we fhall fee ftrange things."
Why should I tell of ponds and drains,

What carps we met with for our pains;
Of fparrows tame, and nuts innumerable

To choke the girls, and to confume a rabble ?
But you, who are a scholar, know
How tranfient all things are below,
How prone to change is human life!
Laft night arriv'd Clem and his wife---
This grand event hath broke our measures;
Their reign began with cruel feizures:
The Dean muft with his quilt fupply
The bed in which thofe tyrants lie:
Nim loft his wig-block, Dan his jordan
(My lady fays, he can't afford one);
George is half-fcar'd out of his wits,
For Clem gets all the dainty bits.
Henceforth expect a different furvey,
This houfe will foon turn topsy-turvy:
They talk of further alterations,
Which caufes many fpeculations.

And th❜t I'd rid'cule their 'nd your flam-flim.
Ay' b't then, p'rhaps, fays you, t's a m'rry whim
With "bundance of mark'd notes i' th' rim,
So th't I ought n't for t' be morofe 'nd t` look grim,
Think n't your 'p'ftle put m' in a meagrim;
Though 'n rep't't'on day, 1 'ppear ver' (lim,
Th' laft bowl 't Helfham's did m' head t' swim,
So that I h'd man' aches 'n 'v'ry scrubb'd limb,
Caule th' top of th' bowl I h'd oft us'd t' skim;
And b'fides D'lan' fwears th't I h'd fwall'w'd
I'v'r'l brim-

mers, 'nd that my vis'ge 's covr'd o'er with r'd pimples: m'r'o'er though m' scull were (s' tis n't) 's ftrong's tim

ber, 't must have ak'd. Th' clans of th' c'lledge Sanh'drim,

Pres'nt the'r humbl' and 'fect'nate refpects; that 'st' fay, D'lan', 'chlin, P. Ludl', Dic' St'wart, Hisham, capt'n P'rr' Walmfl', 'nd Longfh'nks Timm *.

GEORGE-NIM-DAN-DEAN'S ANSWER.

DEAR Sheridan! a gentle pair

Of Gaulitown lads (for fuch they are)
Befides a brace of grave divines,
Adore the imoothness of thy lines;
Smooth as our bafon's filver flood,
Ere George had robb'd it of its mud;
Smoother than Pegafus' old fhoe,
Ere Vulcan comes to make him new.
The board on which we fet our a---s,
1s not fo smooth as are thy veries,
Compar'd with which (and that's enough)
A imcothing-iron itself is rough.
Nor praise I lefs that circumcifion,
By modern pocts call'd ellusion,
With which, in proper ftation plac'd,
Thy polith'd lines are firmly brac'd.
Thas a wife tailor is not pinching,
Bat turns at every feam an inch in;
Or ele, be fure, your broad-cloth breeches
Will ne'er be fmooth, nor hold their flitches.
Thy verie, like bricks, defy the weather,
When fmooth'd by rubbing them together;
Thy words fo clofely wedg'd and fhort are
Like walls, more lafting without mortar :
By leaving out the needlefs vowels,
You fave the charge of lime and trowels.
One letter ftill another locks,

Each groov'd and dove-tail'd like a box.
Thy mufe is tuckt-up and fuccin&;
In chains thy fyllables are linkt;
Thy words together ty'd in small hanks,
Cafe as the Macedonian phalanx;
Or like the umbo of the Romans,

Which ferceft foes could break by no means.
The critic to his grief will find,
How firmly thefe indentures bind.

Nor will they dare to break the joints,
But help thee to be read with points:
Or elfe, to show their learned labour, you
May backward be perus'd like Hebrew,
Where they need not lofe a bit
Or of thy harmony or wit.

To make a work completely fine,
Number and weight and measure join;
Then all must grant your lines are weighty.
Where thirty weigh as much as eighty.
All must allow your numbers more,
Where twenty lines exceed fourfcore;
Nor can we think our measure short,
Where less than forty fill a quart,
With Alexandrian in the clofe,
Long, long, long, long, like Dan's long nofe.

GEORGE NIM-DAN-DEAN'S INVITATION TO THOMAS SHERIDAN.

Gaulflown, Aug. 2. 1721.

DEAR Tom, this verfe, which however the beginning may appear, yet in the end's good metre, Is fent to defire that, when your Auguft vacation comes, your friends you'd meet here.

For why should you stay in that filthy hole, I mean the city fo fmoky,

When you have not one friend left in town, or at leaft not one that's witty, to joke w' ye?

For, as for honest John", though I'm not sure on't, yet I'll be hang'd, left he

Be

gone down to the county of Wexford with that great peer the Lord Anglefey.

Oh! but I forgot; perhaps, by this time, you may have one come to town, but I don't know whether he be friend or foe, Delany;

But, however, if he be come, bring him down, and you fhall go back in a fortnight, for I know there's no delaying ye.

Oh! I forget too; I believe there may be one more: I mean that great fat joker, friend Helfbam, be

That wrote the prologuet, and if you stay with him, depend ont't, in the end, he'll fham ye. Bring down Long Shanks Jim too; but now I think on't, he's not yet come from Courtown, I fancy;

For I heard, a month ago, that he was down there, a-courting fly Nancy.

However, bring down yourself, and you bring

down all; for, to fay it we may venture,

In thee Delany's fpleen, John's mirth, Helfham's jokes, and the foft foul of amorous Jemmy centre.

So, in the kindred painter's art,

The thortening is the nicest part.

Pallologers of future ages,

How will they pore upon thy pages!

Supposed to be Dr. Walmsley.

One poken by young Putland, 1720, before Hippolytus; in which Dr. Sheridan (who had written a prologue for the occafion) was most unexpectedly and egregiously laughed at.

Both

Clayne.

Swift's Works."