THE BUBBLE. Apparent rari nantes in gurgite vasto; E wife Philofophers explain, What Magick makes our Money rife, Thus, in a Bafon, drop a Shilling, It rifes both in Bulk and Height, Behold it mounting to the Top; In stock Three Hundred Thoufand Pounds; I have in View a Lord's Eftate; My Mannors all contiguous round; A Coach and Six, and ferv'd in Plate! Thus the deluded Bankrupt raves, Puts all upon a des'prate Bett; Then plunges in the Southern Waves, It must be fome enchanted Grove; And in he leaps, and down he finks. Two Hundred Chariors juft befpoke, Are funk in these dévouring 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 fafe before, His Chariots tumbling out the Dead, Lay fhatter'd on the Red-Sea Shore. Rais'd up on Hope's afpiring Plumes, The young Advent'rer o'er the Deep An Eagle's Flight and State affumes, And fcorns the middle Way to keep: On Paper-Wings he takes his Flight, With Wax the Feather bound 'em faft; The Wax is melted by the Height, And down the tow'ring Boy is caft. His Wings are his Paternal Rent, He melts his Wax at ev'ry Flame; His Credit funk, his Money spent, In Southern Seas he leaves his Name. Inform us, you, that best can tell, So have I feen from Severn's Brink, But I affirm, 'tis falfe in Fact, One Fool may from another win, And then get off with Money ftor'd; But if a Sharper once comes in, As Fishes on each other prey, The Great ones fwallowing up the Small; So So fares it in the Southern Sea, But Whale-DIRECTORS eat up all. When Stock is high, they come between, With each a Million in his Coffers. So when upon a Moon-shine Night, An Afs was drinking at a Stream; A Cloud arofe, and ftop'd the Light, By intercepting ev'ry Beam. The Day of Judgment will be foon, Cries out a Sage among the Crowd; An Afs hath swallow'd up the Moon, The Moon lay fafe behind the Cloud. Each poor Subfcriber to the Sea Their Fall is but a Trick to rise. So Fishes rifing from the Main, - Undone |