That fwill'd more Liquor than it could contain,
And, like a Drunkard, gives it up again.
Brifk Sufan whips her Linnen from the Rope,
While the firft drizzling Show'r is borne aflope,
Such is that Sprinkling which fome careless Quean
Flirts on you from her Mop, but not so clean.
You fly, invoke the Gods; then turning, ftop
To rail; fhe finging, ftill whirls on her Mop.
Not yet the Duft had fhun'd th' unequal Strife,
But, aided by the Wind, fought ftill for Life,
And wafted with its Foe by violent Guft,
'Twas doubtful which was Rain, and which was Dust.
Ah! where must needy Poet feek for Aid,
When Duft and Rain at once his Coat invade?
His only Coat, where Duft confus'd with Rain
Roughen the Nap, and leave a mingled Stain.
Now in contiguous Drops the Flood comes down,
Threat'ning with Deluge this devoted Town.
To Shops in Crowds the daggled Females fly,
Pretend to cheapen Goods, but nothing buy.
The Templar fpruce, while ev'ry Spout's abroach,
Stays till 'tis fair, yet feems to call a Coach.
The tuck'd-up Semstress walks with hafty Strides,
While Streams run down her oil'd Umbrella's Sides.
Her various Kinds by various Fortunes led,
Commence Acquaintance underneath a Shed.
Triumphant Tories, and defponding Whigs,
Forget their Feuds, and join to fave their Wigs.
Box'd in a Chair the Beau impatient sits,
While Spouts run clatt'ring o'er the Roof by Fits;
And ever and anon, with frightful Din
The Leather founds; he trembles from within.
So when Troy Chair-men bore the wooden Steed,
Pregnant with Greeks, impatient to be freed;
(Thofe Bully Greeks, who, as the Moderns do,
Inftead of paying Chair-men, run them thro',)
Laocoon ftruck the Outfide with his Spear,
And each imprifon'd Hero quak'd for Fear.
Now from all Parts the fwelling Kennels flow,
And bear their Trophies with them as they go :
Filths of all Hues and Odours, feem to tell
What Street they fail'd from, by their Sight and Smell.
They, as each Torrent drives, with rapid Force,
From Smithfield, or St. Pulchre's, fhape their Courfe,
And in huge Confluent join at Snowbill Ridge,
Fall from the Conduit prone to Holbourn-Bridge,
Sweepings from Butchers Stalls, Dungs, Guts and
Blood,
Drown'd Puppies, ftinking Sprats, all drench'd in Mud,
Dead Cats, and Turnip-Tops, come tumbling down the Flood.
A DESCRIPTION of the
MORNING.
OW hardly here and there an Hackney Coach
Appearing, fhew'd the ruddy Morn's Ap-
proach.
Now Betty from her Mafter's Bed had flown,
And foftly stole to difcompofe her own.
The Slipfhod 'Prentice from his Master's Door
Had par'd the Dirt, and fprinkled round the Floor.
Now Moll had whirl'd her Mop with dextrous Airs,
Prepar'd to fcrub the Entry and the Stairs.
The Youth with broomy Stumps began to trace
The Kennel-Edge, where Wheels had worn the Place.
The Small-coal Man was heard with Cadence deep,
Till drown'd in fhriller Notes of Chimney-Sweep.
Duns at his Lordship's Gate began to meet ;
And Brick-Duft Moll had fcream'd thro' half the Street.
The Turnkey now his Flock returning fees,
Duly let out a-nights to filcal for Fees.
The watchful Bailiffs take their filent Stands;
And School-Boys lag with Satchels in their Hands.
HORACE, EPISTLE VII. BOOK I. imitated, and addreffed to the Earl of OXFORD, in the Year 1713.
TARLEY, the Nation's great Support,
Returning Home one Day from Court,
(His Mind with publick Cares poffeft,
All Europe's Bus'nef in his Breift)
Obferv'd a Parfon near Whitehall,
Cheap'ning old Authors on a Stall.
The Priest was pretty well in Cafe,
And fhew'd fome Humour in his Face;
Look'd with an easy, careless Mien,
A perfect Stranger to the Spleen;
Of fize that might a Pulpit fill,
But more inclining to fit still.
My Lord, (who if a Man may fay'ı)
Loves Mifchief better than his Mcat,
1. Strenuus & fortis, cauffifque Philippus agendis
Clarus ab officiis oltavam circiter boram
Dum redit.
Adrofum quendam vacuâ tonforis in umbrâ
Cultello proprios purgantem lenitur ungues.
Was now difpos'd to crack a Jeft,
And bid Friend Lewis go in queft,
(This Lewis is a cunning Shaver,
And very much in HARLEY'S Favour;)
In queft, who might this Parfon be,
What was his Name, of what Degree,
If poffible to learn his Story,
And whether he were Whig or Tory?
LEWIS his Patron's Humour knows,
his Errand goes,
And quickly did the Matter fift,
Found out that it was Dr. Swift;
A Clergyman of special Note,
Went where he pleas'd, faid what he thought,
Not rich, but ow'd no Man a Groat :
15. (Demetri puer hic non lave juffa Philippi
Accipiebat) abi, quære, & refer: Unde domo,quis,
Cujus fortune, quo fit Patre, quove Patrono?
23,25. It, redit, & narrat, Volteium nomine Manam.
31
Tenui cenfu, fine crimine notum,
Et properare loco, & ceffare, & quærere, &uti,
Gaudentem.
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