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Gens affueta mari, & pedibus percurrere rupes,
Terretur tamen, & longè fugit, arva relinquens.
Gramina dum carpunt pendentes rupe capellæ,
Vi falientis aquæ de fummo præcipitantur,
Et dulces animas imo fub gurgite linquunt.
Pifcator terrâ non audet vellere funem ;*
Sed latet in portu tremebundus, & aëra fudum
Haud fperans, Nereum precibus votifque fatigat.

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O! from the top of yonder cliff, that shrouds Its airy head amidst the azure clouds, Hangs a huge fragment; deftitute of props, Prone on the waves the rocky ruin drops; With hoarfe rebuff the fwelling feas rebound, From fhore to fhore the rocks return the found: The dreadful murmur heaven's high convex cleaves,. And Neptune fhrinks beneath his fubject waves : For long the whirling winds and beating tides Had fcoop'd a vault into its nether sides. Now yields the bafe, the fummits nod, now urge Their headlong course, and lafh the founding furge. Not louder noife could shake the guilty world, When Jove heap'd mountains upon mountains hurl'd; Retorting Pelion from his dread abode,

To crush Earth's rebel-fons beneath the load.


Oft' too with hideous yawn the cavern wide Prefents an orifice on either fide,

A difinal orifice, from fea to fea

Extended, pervious to the God of Day:
Uncouthly join'd, the rocks ftupendous form
An arch, the ruin of a future ftorm:
High on the cliff their nefts the Woodquests make,
And Sea-calves ftable in the oozy lake.

But when bleak Winter with his fullen train
Awakes the winds to vex the watery plain;
When o'er the craggy fteep without control,
Big with the blaft, the raging billows roll;
Not towns beleaguer'd, not the flaming brand,
Darted from Heaven by Jove's avenging hand,
Oft' as on impious men his wrath he pours,
Humbles their pride, and blafts their gilded towers,
Equal the tumult of this wild uproar :

Waves rush o'er waves, rebellows fhore to fhore.
The neighbouring race, though wont to brave the shocks
Of angry feas, and run along the rocks,

Now pale with terror, while the ocean foams,
Fly far and wide, nor trust their native homes.

The goats, while pendent from the mountain-top
The wither'd herb improvident they crop,
Wash'd down the precipice with fudden sweep,
Leave their fweet lives beneath th' unfathom'd deep.
The frighted fifher, with defponding eyes,
Though fafe, yet trembling in the harbour lies,
Nor hoping to behold the skies ferene,

Wearies with vows the monarch of the main.


The Bishop of ROCHESTER'S French Dog *.

In a Dialogue between a WHIG and a TORY. 17235:


ASK'D a Whig the other night,

How came this wicked plot to light?
He anfwer'd, that a dog of late:
Inform'd a minifter of state.

Said I, from thence I nothing know;
For are not all informers fo?:
A villain who his friend betrays,
We style him by no other phrafe;
And fo a perjur'd dog denotes

Porter, and Prendergaft, and Oates,

And forty others I could name.

WHIG. But, you must know, this dog was lame.
TORY. A weighty argument indeed !

Your evidence was lame: proceed :

Come, help your lame dog o'er the style..

WHIG Sir, you mistake me all this while :

I mean a dog (without a joke)

Can howl, and bark, but never fpoke.

TORY. I'm ftill to feek, which dog you mean Whether cur Plunkeit, or whelp Skean,

An English or an Irish hound;

Or t' other puppy, that was drown'd;

See the "State Trials," Vol. VI

Or .

Or Mafon, that abandon'd bitch:

Then pray be free, and tell me which:
For every ftander by was marking

That all the nee they made was barking..
You pay them well; the dogs have got
Their dogs-heads in a porridge pot :
And 'twas but juft; for wife men say,
That every dog mußt have bis day.
Dog Walpole laid a quart of nog on 't,.
He'd either make a bag or dog on 't;
And look'd, fince he has got his wifh,
As if he had thrown down a difb.
Yet this I dare foretel you from it,
He'll foon return to his own vomit.

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WHIG. Besides, this horrid plot was found By Neynoe, after he was drown'd.......

TORY. Why then the proverb is not right,, Since you can teach dead dogs to bite. WHIG. I prov'd my propofition full:

But jacobites are ftrangely dull.

Now let me tell you plainly, Sir,

Our witnefs is a real cur,

A dog of spirit for his years,

Has twice two legs, two hanging ears;
His name is Harlequin, I wot,
And that's a name in every plot :
Refolv'd to fave the British nation,..
Though French by birth and education;
His correfpondence plainly dated
Was all decypher'd and tranflated:

His answers were exceeding pretty
Before the fecret wife committee:
Confeft as plain as he could bark:
Then with his fore-foot fet his mark.

TORY. Then all this while have I been bubbled,
I thought it was a dog in doublet :
The matter now no longer fticks;
For statesmen never want dog-tricks.
But fince it was a real cur,
And not a dog in metaphor,
I give you joy of the report,

That he 's to have a place at court.

WHIG. Yes, and a place he will grow rich in;

A turn-fpit in the royal kitchen.

Sir, to be plain, I tell you what,
We had occafion for a plot :

And, when we found the dog begin it,
We guefs'd the bishop's foot was in it.
TORY. I own, it was a dangerous project;
And you have prov'd it by dog-logick.
Sure fuch intelligence between

A dog and bishop ne'er was feen,
Till you began to change the breed;
Your bishops all are dogs indeed!


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