And, next, obferve how this alliance fits,
For Weavers now are just as poor as Wits;
Their brother quill-men, workers for the ftage,
For forry ftuff 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 dreffing.

A POEM, BY DR. DELANY,
On the preceding Prologue and Eilogue.

"Famineo generi tribuantur?

HE Mufes, whom the richeft filks array, Refufe to fling their fhining 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 thall two Bards in concert rhyme and huff, And fret thefe Mufes with their Play-house stuff? The Player in mimic piety may ftorm, Deplore the Comb, and bid her Heroes arm: The arbitrary mob, in paltry rage,

May curse the Belles and Chintzes of the age: Yet fill the Artist Worm her Silk fhall fare, And fpin her thread of life in fervice of the fair. The Cotton-plant, whom fatire cannot blaft, Shall bloom the favourite of thefe realms, and laft;

Like yours, ye Fair, her fame from cenfure grows,

Prevails in charms, and glares above her foes:
Your injur'd plant fall 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 Sonnetteers as these? Hence then, ye home-spun Witlings, that perfuade

Mifs Chloe to the fashion of her maid.

Shall the wide Hoop, that flandard of the town,
Thus act subservient to a Poplin Gown?
Who 'd smell of wool all over? 'Tis enough
The under-petticoat be made of stufl.
Lord! to be wrapt in flannel juft in May,
When the fields drefs'd in flowers appear fo
gay!

And fhall not Mifs be floruer as well as they?.
In what weak colours would the plaid ap-

Ye knowing Fair, how eminent that bed,
Where the Chintze diamonds with the Silken
Thread,

Where ruffling curtains call the curious eye,
And boaft the ftreaks and paintings of the fky!
Of flocks they'd have your milky ticking full;
And all this for the benefit of wool!

"But where," say they, "fhall we bestow thefe Weavers,

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

The Silk-worms (brittle beings!) prone to fate,
Demand their care to make their webs complete:
There may they tend, their promises receive;
We cannot pay too much for what they give!

The feat of George Rochfort, efy. (father to the Earl of Belvidere); where Dr. Swift and an agreeable jet of friends spent part of the fummer of

1721.

Daughter to the Earl of Drogheda, and the wife of Mr. Rechfert.

*Mr. Rochfort.

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 fie, Telury;

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

Oh! I forgot too; I believe there may be one more: I mean that great fat joker, frien! BelShim, he

That wrote the prologue*, and if you fay with him, depend on 't, in the end he ?!! fhm ye. Bring down Long Shanks Jim too; but, now I thin 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 Niney.

However, bring down yourfelf, and you bring down all; tor to fay it we may venture, In thee Delany's fpleen, John's mirth, Helfham's joxes, and the foft foul of amorous Jemmy,

c.nter.

POSTSCRIPT.

I had forgot to defire you to bring down what I fay you have, and you'll believe ine as fure as and own it; a gun, I mean, what no other mortal in the universe can boaft of, your own spirit of fun, and own wit. And now I hope you'll excufe this rhyming, which I must fay is (though written fomewhat at krge trim and cleon;

And fo I conclude, with humble refpects as ufual, Your moft dutitul and obedient GEORGE-NIM-DAN-DEAN'

HALL

TO GEORGE-NIM-DAN-DEAN, Efq.
Upon his incomparable VERSES, &c,
By Dr. DELANY, in SHERIDAN's Namej
AIL, human compound quadrifarious,
Invincible as Wight Briareus!
Hail! doubly doubled mighty merry one,
Stronger than triple-body'd Geryon!
O may your vaftnefs deign t excufe
The praises of a puny Mufe,
Unable in her utmoft flight,
To reach thy huge Coloff an height.
T' attempt to write li e thee were rantic,
Whofe lines are, like thyfelf, giga tic.

Yet let me blefs, ir humbler rain,
Thy vaft, thy bold (amby an vein,
Pour'd out t'enrich thy native ifle,
As Egypt wont to be with Nile.
Oh, how I joy to fee thee wander,
In many a winding loofe meander,
In circling mazes, fmooth and fupple,
And ending in a clink cuadruple;

One foken by young Putland, in 1720, before Holytus; in which Dr. Sher 'dan (whe had suritten a prologue for the occation) avas me, unexpectedly ard egregiously laughed at, Both the prologues are printed in the "Supplement to Swift's Works?? N. †These were all quritten in circles.

Loud, yet agreeable withal,
Like rivers rattling in their fall!
Thine fure, is poetry divine,
Where wit and majesty combine;
Where every line as huge as feven,
If ftretch'd in length, would reach to Heaven:
Here all comparing would be flandering,
The leaft is more than Alexandrine.

Against thy verfe Time fees with pain,
He whets his envious fcythe in vain;
For, though from thee he much may pare,
Yet much thou fill wilt have to spare.
Thou haft alone the kill to feaft
With Roman elegance of tafe,
Who haft of rhymes as vaft refources
As Pompey's caterer of courses,

Oh thou, of all the Nice in pir'd!
My languid foul, with teaching tir'd,
How is it raptur'd, when it thinks
On thy harmonious fet of cln's;
Each aufwering each in various rhymes,
Life Echo to St. Patric, chimes!

Thy Mufe, majestic in her rage,
Moyes like Statira on the ftage;
And fearcely can one page fuftain
The length of fuch a Howing train :
Her train, of variegated dye,
Shews like Thaumantia's in the fky;

Alike they glow, ali se they please,
Alike impreft by Phœbus rays.

Thy verf. (Ye Gods! I cannot bear it)
To what, to what fall I compare it?
'Tis like, what I have oft' heard fpoke on,
The famous ftatue of Laocoon.

is like yes, 'tis very like it,

1

The long, long ftring, with which you fly kite
'Tis like what you, and one or two more,
Roar to your Echo in good-humour;
And every couplet thou haft writ
Conclude like Rattal,whittak-whit†.

To Mr. THOMAS SHERIDAN, Upon his Verfes written in Circles. By Dr. SWIFT, I never was known that circular letters,

By humble companions, were fent to their
betters:

And, as to the fubje&t, our judgment, mehercle,
Is this, that you argue like fools in a circle.
But now for your verfes; we tell you, imprimis,
The fegment fo large 'twixt your reafon and
rhyme is,

That we walk all about, like a horfe in a pound
And, before we find either, our noddles tura round.
Sufficient it were, one would thin, in your mad

raut.

To give us your measures of line by a quadrant. But we took our dividers, and found your d--n'd metre,

In each fingle verfe took up a diameter.

But how Mr. Sheridan, came you to venture George, Dan, Dean and Nim, to place in the centre‡?

At Gaulftown there is a remarkable famous echo.
An allusion to the found produced by the echo.
Their figures were in the centre of the verses.

'Twill appear, to your coft, you are fairly trepann'd,

For the chord of your circle is now in their hand;

Tie chord, or the radius, it matters not whether,
By which your jade Pegafus, fixt in a tether,
As her betters are us'd, fhall be lafh'd round the
ring,

Three fellows with whips, and the Dean holds. the string,

Will Handcock declares, you are out of your compafs,

To encroach on his art by writing of bombafs;
And has taken just now a firm refolution
To answer your ftyle without circumlocution,
Lady Betty prefents you her fervice moft
bumble,

And is not afraid your worship will grumble,
That the makes of your verfes a hoop for Mifs
Tam†,

Which is all at prefent; and fo I remain

equally bleft,

ON DAN JACKSON'S PICTURE, CUT IN SILK AND PAPER.

To fair Lady Betty, Dan fat for his picture,

And defy'd her to draw him fo oft' as he piqu'd her.

He knew the 'd no pencil or colouring by her, And therefore he thought he might fafely defy her.

Come fit, fays my Lady; then whips up her fciffar,

And cuts out his coxcomb in filk in a trice, Sir.
Dan fat with attention, and faw with furprize
How the lengthen'd his chin, how the hollow'd
his eyes;

But flatter'd himfelf with a fecret conceit,
That his thin lantern jaws all her art would defeat.
Lady Betty obferv'd it, then pulls out a pin,
And varies the grain of the ftuff to his grin;
And, to make roafted falk to refemble his raw-
bone,

She rais'd up a thread to the jet of his jaw-bone;
Till at length in exacteft proportion he rofe,
From the crown of his head to the arch of his
nofe.

And if Lady Betty had drawn him with wig and all,

'Tis certain the copy had out-done the original. Well, that 's but my outfide, fays Dan with a

vapour.

face.

One floping cut made forehead, nofe, and chin;
A nick produc'd a mouth, and made him grin,
Such as in taylors' measure you have feen.
But ftill were wanting his grimalkin eyes,
Th' unravel'd thread through needle's eye con-
For which grey worsted-stocking paint fupplies.
vey'd

Transferr'd itfelf into his rafte-board head.
How came the fciffars to be thus out-done?
The needle had an eye, and they had none.
O wondrous force of art! now look at Dan
You'll fwear the pafte-board was the better man.
"The devil!" fays he, "the head is not f
full !"

Indeed it is--behold the paper skull.

THO. SHERIDAN Sculp

ON THE SAME PICTURE.

D Had ftripp'd him of his coin at dice,

AN'S evil genius in a trice

Chloe, obferving this difgrace,
On Pam cut out his rueful face,