And turn it as I have a mind,
And move it against tide and wind.
Nay, bring me here the tallest man,
I'll fqueeze him to a little fpan:
Or bring a tender child and pliant,
You'll fee me stretch him to a giant;
Nor fhall they in the leaft complain,
Because my magick gives no pain.

Though candour and truth in my afpect I bear,
Yet many poor creatures 1 help to enfnare.
Though fo much of Heaven appears in my make,
The fouleft impreffions I eatly take.

My parent and I produce one another,
The mother the daughter, the daughter the mother.

XVIII. On TIME.

EVER eating, never cloying,

All devouring, all destroying,

Never finding full repaft,
Till I eat the world at last.

XIX. On the GALLOWs.

HERE is a gate, we know full well,

THE

That ftands 'twixt heaven, and earth, and
hell,

Where many for a paffage venture,
Yet very few are found to enter;
Although 'tis open night and day,
They for that reafon fhun this way:
Both dukes and lords abhor its wood,
They can't come near it for their blood,
What other way they take to go,
Another time I'll let you know.
Yet commoners with greatest case
Can find an entrance when they please.
The poorest hither march in ftate
(Or they can never pafs the gate),
Like Roman Generals triumphant,
And then they take a turn and jump on 't.
If graveft parfons here advance,
They cannot pafs before they dance;
There's not a foul that does refort here,
But ftrips himself to pay the porter,

XX. On the VOWELS.

WE are little airy create and features:

One of us in glafs is fet,
One of us you'll find in jet,
T'other you may fee in tin,
And the fourth a box within;
If the fifth you should pursue,
It can never fly from you,

XXI. On SNOW.

FROM heaven I fall, though from earth

ROM heaven I fall, though from earth I begin:

I'm bright as an angel, and light as a feather; But heavy and dark, when you fqueeze me together.

XXII. On a CANNON.

EGOTTEN, and born, and dying with noife,

Like the fiction of poets concerning the wind,
I'm chiefly unruly when ftrongest confin'd.
For filver and gold I don't trouble my head,
But all I delight in is pieces of lead;
Except when I trade with a fhip or a town,
Why then I make pieces of iron go down.
One property more I would have you remark,
No lady was ever more fond of a spark;
The moment I get one, my foul's all a-fire,
And I roar out my joy, and in transport expire.

XXIII. On a PAIR OF DICE.

Warbiters of lofs and gain;

are little brethren twain,

Many to our counters run,

Some are made, and fome undone :
But men find it to their coft,
Few are made, but numbers loft.
Though we play them tricks for ever,
Yet they always hope our favour.

TO

XXIV. On a CANDET.

LADY CARTERET all inhabitants on earth,

10 Man alone I owe my birth;

And yet the Cow, the Sheep, the Bee,
Are all my parents more than be.
I, a virtue ftrange and rare,
Make the faire ft look more fair;
And myfelf, which yet is rarer,
Growing old, grow ftill the fairer.
Like fots, alone I'm dull enough,
When dos'd with fmoak, and fear'd with fnuff;
But, in the midft of mirth and wine,
I with double luftre fhine.
Emblem of the Fair am I,
Polish'd neck, and radiant eye;
In my eye my greatest grace,
Emblem of the Cyclops' race;
Metals I like them fubduc,
Slave like them to Vulcan too,
Emblem of a monarch old,
Wife, and glorious to behold;
Wafted he appears, and pale,
Watching for the public weal':
Emblem of the bafhful dame,
That in feeret feeds her flame,

Often aiding to impart
All the fecrets of her heart,
Various is my bulk and hue;

Big like Befs, and fmall lite Sue;
Now brown and burnifh'd as a nut,
At other times a very flut;
Often fair, and foft, and tender,

Taper, tall, and smooth, and flender;
Like Flora deck'd with various flowers;

Like Phebus, guardian of the hours;
But, whatever be my drefs,

Greater be my fize or lefs,
Swelling be my fhape or fmall,
Like thy felf I fhine in all.
Clouded if my face is feen,
My complexion wan and green,
Languid like a love-fck maid,
Steel affords me prefent aid.
Soon or late, my date is done,
As my thread of life is fpun;
Yet to cut the fatal thread
Dit' revives my drooping head:
Yet I perish in my prime,
Seldom by the death of time;
Die like lovers as they gaze,
Die for thofe I live to please ;
Pine unpitied to my urn,

Nor warm the fair for whom I burn;
Unpitied, unlamented too,
Die like all that look on you.

ANSWERED BY DR. SWIFT.
WITH balf an eye your riddle 1 spy.
I obferve your wicket hemm'd in by a thicket,
And whatever pafies is ftrained through glasses.
You fay it is quiet: I flatly deny it.

It wanders about, without flirring out;
No paffion fo weak but gives it a tweak;
Love, joy, and devotion, fet it always in motion.
And as for the tragic effects of its magick,
Which you fay it can kill or revive at its wiil,
The dead are all found, and revive above ground,
After all you have writ, it cannot be wit;
Which plainly does follow, fince it flies from
Apollo.

Its cowardice fuch, it cries at a touch:
'Tis a perfect milkfop, grows drunk with a drop.
Another great fault, it cannot bear falt :

And a hair can difarm it of every charm.

A RECEIPT

TO RESTORE STELLA'S YOUTH. 1724-5. HE Scottish hinds, too poor to house

ΤΗ

In frosty nights their starving cows, While not a blade of grafs or hay Appears from Michaelmas to May, Muft let their cattle range in vain For food along the barren plain. Meagre and lank with fafting grown, And nothing left but skin and bone; Expos'd to want, and wind, and weather, They just keep life and foul together, Till fummer-fhowers and evening's dew Again the verdant glebe renew; And, as the vegetables rife,

The famith'd cow her want fupplies: Without an ounce of last year's flesh, Whate'er the gains is young and freth; Grows plump and round, and full of mettle, As rifing from Medea's kettle, With youth and beauty to inchant Europa's counterfeit gallant. Why, Stella, fhould you knit your brow, If I compare you to the cow? 'Tis juft the cafe; for you have fafted So long, till all your flesh is wafted, And muft against the warmer days Be fent to Quilca down to graze; Where mirth, and exercife, and air, Will foon your appetite repair: The nutriment will from within, Round all your body, plump your skin, Will agitate the lazy flood, And fill your veins with fprightly blood; Nor flesh nor blood will be the fame, Nor aught of Stella but the name; For what was ever understood, By human kind, but flesh and blood? And if your flesh and blood be new, You'll be no more the former you; But for a blooming nymph will país, Just fifteen, coming fummer's grafs,

Your jetty locks with garlands crown'd: While all the 'fquires for nine miles round, Attended by a brace of curs,

With jocky boots and filver spurs,

No lefs than juftices o quorum,

Their cow-boys bearing cloaks before 'em,
Shall leave deciding broken pates,
To kifs your steps at Quilca gates.
But, left you should my skill difgrace,
Come back before you 're out of cafe:
For if to Michaelmas you ftay,
The new-born flesh will melt away;
The 'fquire in fcorn will fly the house
For better game, and look for grouse;
But here, before the froft can mar it,
We'll make it firm with beef and claret,

STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY. 1724-5. AS, when a beauteous nymph decays,

We fay, fhe's paft her dancing-days;
So poets lose their feet by time,
And can no longer dance in rhyme.
Your annual bard had rather chose
To celebrate your birth in profe:
Yet merry folks, who want by chance
A pair to make a country-dance,
Call the old houfe-keeper, and get her
To fill a place, for want of better:
While Sheridan is off the hooks,
And friend Delany at his books,
That Stella may avoid difgrace,
Once more the Dear. fupplies their place.
Beauty and wit, too fad a truth!
Have always been confin'd to youth;
The god of wit, and beauty's queen,
He twenty-one, and she fifteen.
No poet ever fweetly fung,

Unless he were, like Phoebus, young;
Nor ever nymph infpir'd to rhyme,
Unless, like Venus, in her prime.
At fifty-fix, if this be true,
Am I a poet fit for you?
Or, at the age of forty-three,
Are you a fubject fit for me?
Adieu! bright wit, and radiant eyes!
You must be grave, and I be wife.
Our fate in vain we would oppose :
But I'll be ftill your friend in profe:
Etteem and friendship to exprefs,
Will not require poetic drefs;
And, if the Mufe deny her aid
To have them ung, they may be faid.
But, Stella, fay, what evil tongue
Reports you are no longer young;
That Time fits, with his fcythe, to mow
Where erft fat Cupid with his bow;
That half your locks are turn'd to grey?
I'll ne'er believe a word they say.
'Tis true, but let it not be known,
My eyes are fomewhat dimmifh grown :
For nature, always in the right,
To your decays adapts my fight;

And wrinkles undistinguish'd pass,
For I 'm afham'd to use a glafs;
And till I fee them with thefe eyes,
Whoever fays you have them, lies.

No length of time can make you quit
Honour and virtue, fenfe and wit:
Thus you may still be young to me,
While I can better hear than fee.
Oh, ne'er may Fortune fhew her fpight,
To make me deaf, and mend my fight!

AN EPIGRAM

ON WOOD'S BRASS MONEY. MARTERET was welcom'd to the shore

Firft with the brazen cannons roar; To meet him next the foldier comes, With brazen tramps and brazen drums; Approaching near the town he hears The brazen bells falute his ears: But, when Wood's brafs began to found, Guns, trumpets, drums, and bells, were drown'd.

A SIMILE,

ON OUR WANT OF SILVER: And the only WAY to REMEDY it. 1725.

S when of old fome forceress threw

As the moon's face a fable hue,

To drive unfeen her magic chair,
At midnight, through the darken'd air;
Wife people, who believ'd with reafon
That this eclipfe was out of season,
Affirm'd the moon was fick, and fell
To cure her by a counter-fpell.
Ten thoufand cymbals now begin
To rend the fkies with brazen din;
The cymbals' rattling founds difpel
The cloud, and drive the hug to hell.
The moon, deliver'd from her pain,
Difplays her filver face again
(Note here, that in the chemic ftyle,
The moon is filver all this while).

So (if my fimile you minded,
Which I confefs is too long-winded)
When ! a feminine magician*,
Join'd with a brazen politician,
Expos'd, to blind the nation's eyes,
A parchment of prodigious fize;
Conceal'd behind that ample screen,
There was no filver lo be feen.
But to this parchment let the Drapier
Oppofe his counter-charm of paper,
And ring Wood's copper in our ears
So loud till all the nation hears;
That found will make the parchment fhrivel,
And drive the conjurers to the devil:

A great lady was faid to have been bribed by
Wood.
The patent for coining half-pence,

And a fig for the Drapier and Hardinge*.

When tradesmen have gold,
The thief will le bold,

By night and by day for to rob him:
My copper is fuch,

No robber will touch,

And fo you may daintily bob him.

The little blackguard,
Who gets very hard

His half-pence for cleaning your shoes;
When his pockets are cramm`d
With mine and be d—'d,

He

may wear he has nothing to lofe.

Here's half-pence in plenty,
For one you'll have twenty,
Though thousands are not worth a pudden;
Your neighbours will think,
When your pocket cries chink,
You are grown plaguy rich on a sudden.
You will be my thankers,
I'll make you my bankers,

As good as Ben Burton or Fade†;
For nothing fhall pafs
But my pretty brass,

And then you'll be all of a trade,

I'm a fon of a whore

If I have a word more

To fay in this wretched condition.
If my coin will not pass,
I muft die like an afs;

And fo I conclude my petition.

SONG HALF-PENCE.

E people of Ireland, both country and city, Come liften with patience, and hear out my ditty:

At this time I'll choose to be wifer than witty, Which nobody can deny.

The Soldier is ruin'd, poor man! by his pay; His five-pence will prove but a farthing a day, For meat, or for drink; or he must run away. Which, &c.

When he pulls out his two-pence, the Tapfter fays not,

That ten times as much he must pay for his fhot;
And thus the poor Soldier must foon go to pot.
Which, &c.

If he goes to the Baker, the Baker will huff,
And twenty-pence have for a two-penny loaf,
Then, dog, rogue, and rascal, and so kick and
cuff,
Which, &c.

Again, to the market whenever he goes,
The Butcher and Soldier muft be mortal foes;
One cuts off an ear, and the other a nose.

Which, &c.

There's an end of your ploughing, and baking,

and brewing: