But Gadbury, in art profound,
From her pale cheeks pretends to shew,
That swain Endymion* is not found,
Or else that Mercury's her foe.
But, let the cause be what it will,
In half a month she looks so thin,
That Flamsteed + can, with all his skill,
See but her forehead and her chin.
Yet, as she wastes, she grows difcreet,
Till midnight never shews her head :
So rotting Celia strolls 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 tresses 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 preside !
Since mortal beauties drop so soon,
If ye would have us well fupply'd,
Send us new nymphs with each new moon!
* A young shepherd, of whom Diana was feigned to be enamoured.
+ John Flamsteed, the celebrated aftronomer royal.
HE farmer's goofe, who in the stubble
Has fed without reftraint or trouble,
Grown fat with corn, and fitting still,
Can scarce 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 shews the goose is poor.
But, when she must be turn'd to graze,
And round the barren common strays,
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 she 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 swill
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, stuff'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 steed, oppress'd, would break his girth,
To raise 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 fmooth 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 spirit loaths
Incumbrances of food and cloaths;
And up he rifes, like a vapour,
Supported high on wings of paper;
He finging flies, and flying fings,
While from below all Grubstreet rings.
THE SOUTH SEA PROJECT. 1721.
" Apparent rari nantes in gurgite vasto, " Arına virum, tabulæque, et Troïa gaza per undas."
VE wife philofophers, explain
What magick makes our money rife,
When dropt into the Southern main;
Or do these 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 bason drop a fhilling,
Then fill the vessel to the brim;
You shall observe, as you are filling,
The ponderous metal seems to swim :
It rises both in bulk and height,
Behold it swelling like a sop;
The liquid medium cheats your fight;
Behold it mounted to the top!
In stock three hundred thousand pounds;
I have in view a lord's estate;
My manors all contiguous round;
A coach and fix, and ferv'd in plate !
Thus, the deluded bankrupt raves;
Puts 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 smooth ocean's azure bed, Enamel'd fields and verdant trees : With eager hafte he longs to rove In that fantastic scene, and thinks It must be some enchanted grove; And in he leaps, and down he finks. Five hundred chariots, just bespoke, Are funk in these 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 safe before;
His chariots, tumbling out the dead,
Lay shatter'd on the Red-Sea shore.
Rais'd up on Hope's afpiring plumes,
The young adventurer o'er the deep
An eagle's flight and state assumes,
And scorns 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 moralist might here explain
The rashness of the Cretan youth;
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 spent,
In Southern Seas he leaves bis name.
Inform us, you that beft can tell,
Why in yon' dangerous gulph profound,
Where hundreds and where thousands fell,
Fools chiefly float, the wife are drown'd?
So have I seen from Severn's brink
A flock of geese jump down together:
Swim, where the bird of Jove would fink,
And, fwimming, never wet a feather.
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