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VERSEs on the upright Judge who con

demned the Drapier's Printer.

Written in the year 1724.

"HE church I hate, and have good reason;

He cut his weazon at the altar;
I keep my gullet for the halter.



On the Same.

IN church your grandfire cut his throat :

To do the job too long he tarry'd; He should have had my hearty vote, To cut his throat before he marry'd.


On the Same.

(The Judge speaks.)
I'm not the grandson of that ass Quin®,

Nor can you prove it, Mr Pasquin.
My grand-dame had gallants by twenties,
And bore my mother by a 'prentice;

* Aa alderman,


This when my grandfire knew, they tell us he
In Christ-church cut his throat for jealousy.
And, fince the alderman was mad you say,
Then must I be so too, ex traduce.

A SIMILE on our want of Silver, and the

only way to remedy it,

Written in the year 1725.




S when of old fome forc're's threw

O'er the moon's face a fable hue,
To drive unseen her magic chair,
At midnight, through the darken'd air;
Wife people, who believ'd with reason,
That this eclipse was out of feafon,
Affirm'd the moon was fick, and fell
To cure her by a counter-fpell.
Ten thousand cymbals now begin
To rend the skies with brazen din;
The cymbal's rattling sounds dispel
The cloud, and drive the hag to hell :
The moon, deliver'd from her pain,
Displays her silver face again.
(Note here, that in the chymic style,
The moon is filver all this while).

So (if my fimile you minded,
Which I confefs is too long winded)
When late a feminine magician *,
Join'd with a brazen politician,
Expos’d, to blind the nation's eyes,
A parchment of prodigious fizeti



* A great lady is reported to have been bribed by Wood. + A patent to William Wood for coining halfpence.



Conceal'd behind that ample screen,
There was no filver to be seen.
But to this parchment let the Drapier
Oppose 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 shrivel,
And drive the conj’rers to the devil :
And when the sky is grown ferene,
Our silver will appear again.


On WOOD the Ironmonger.

Written in the year 1725.


SAlmoneus, as the Grecian tale is,

Was a mad coppersmith of Elis;
Up at his forge by morning-peep,
No creature in the lane could sleep.
Among a crew of royst’ring fellows
Would fit whole ev'nings at the ale house:
His wife and children wanted bread,
While he went always drunk to bed.
This vap’ring scab must needs devise

ape the thunder of the 1kies :
With brass too fiery steeds he shod,
To make a clatt’ring as they trod.
Of polish'd brass his flaming car
Like lightning dazzled from afar;
And up he mounts into the tox,
And he must thunder, with a pox,
Then furious he begins his march,
Drives rattling o'er a brazen arch:




With squibs and crackers arm'd to throw
Among the trembling croud below.
All ran to pray’rs, both priests and laity,
To pacify this angry deity;
When Jove, in pity to the town,
With real thunder knock'd him down.
Then what a huge delight were all in,
To see the wicked varlet sprawling ?
They search'd his pockets on the place,
And found his copper all was base;
They laugh'd at such an Irith blunder,
To take the noise of brass for thunder.



The moral of this tale is proper,
Apply'd to Wood's adul'trate copper :
Which, as he scatter'd, we like dolts
Miftook at first for thunderbolts;
Before the Drapier shot a letter.
(Nor Jove himself could do it better),
Which lighting on th' impostor's crown,
Like real thunder knock'd him down,


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By long obfervation I have understood,

That two little vermin are kin to Will. Wood. The first is an infect they call a wood-louse, That folds up itself in itself for a house, As round as a ball, without head, without tail, 5 Inclos'd cap-a-pee in a strong coat of mail. And thus William Wood to my fancy appears In fillets of brass roll’d up to his ears :


And over these fillets he wisely has thrown,
To keep out of danger, a doublet of stone *


The louse of the wood for a med'cine is us’d, Or swallow'd alive, or skilfully bruis’d. And let but our mother Hibernia contrive To swallow Will Wood either bruis'd or alive, She need be no more with the jaundice pofsest, 15 Or fick of obfiructions, and pains in her chest.

The next is an insect wè call a wood-worm, That lies in old wood like a hare in her form : With teeth or with claws it will bite or will scratch; And chambermaids chriften this worm a deathwatch;

20 Because, like a watch, it always cries click: Then wo be to those in the house who are fick; For, as sure as a gun, they will give up the ghost, If the maggot cries click, when it scratches the post. But a kettle of scalding hot water injected 25 Infallibly cures the timber affected : The omen is broken, the danger is over ; maggot

will die, and the fick will recover. Such a worm was Will Wood, when he scratch'd

at the door Of a governing statesinan or favourite whore : 30 The death of our nation he seem’d to foretell, And the sound of his brass we took for our knell. But now since the Drapier hath heartily maul'd

him, I think the best thing we can do is to scald him. For which operation there's nothing more proper 35 Than the liquor he deals in, his own melted capper;


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