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CHLOR, when on thy breast I lie,
Observes me with revengeful eye :
If Chloe o'er thy heart prevails,
She'll tear me with her defpirate nails ;
And with relentless hands destroy
The tender pledges of our joy.
Nor have I bred a spurious race ;
They all were born from thy embrace.

CONSIDER, Strephon, what you do ;
For should I die for love of you,
I'll haunt thy dreams, a bloodless ghost,
And all my kin, a num'rous host,
Who down direct our lineage bring
From victors o'er the Memphian King;
Renown'd in fieges and campaigns,
Who never fled the bloody plains,
Who in tempestuous seas can sport,
And scorn the pleasures of a court ;
From whom great Stella found his doom;
Who scourg'd to death that scourge of Rome,
Shall on thee take a vengeance dire;
Thou, like Alcides, fhalt expire,
When his invenom'd shirt he wore,
And skin and flesh in pieces tore.
Nor less that shirt my rival's gift,
Cut from the piece that made her shift,
Shall in thy dearest blood be dy'd,
And make thee tear thy tainted hide.

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DEpriv'd of root, and branch, and rind,

Yet flow'rs I bear of ev'ry kind ;

And such is my prolific pow'r,
They bloom in less than half an hour :
Yet standers-by may plainly see

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They get no nourishment from me.
My head with giddiness goes round;
And yet I firmly stand my ground:
All over naked I am seen,
And painted like an Indian queen.

10 No couple-beggar in the land, E'er join'd fuch numbers hand in hand ; I join them fairly with a ring ; Nor can our parson blame the thing : And tho' no marriage-words are spoke,

15 They part not till the ring is broke, Yet hypocrite fanatics cry, I'm but an idol rais'd on high; And once a weaver in our town, A damn'd Cromwellian, knock'd me down. I lay a pris'ner twenty years, And then the jovial cavaliers To their old poft reftor'd all three, I mean the church, the king, and me. VERSES on the upright judge who condemned the

DRAPIER's printer.

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Written in the year 1724.

THE church

I hate, and have good reafon ;
For there my grandfire cut his weazon :
He cut his weazon at the altar ;
I keep my gullet for the halter.

On the same.
IN
N church your grandfire cut his throat :

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

On the fame.

I'M.

(The judge speaks).
"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 ;
This, when my grandfire knew, they tell us he
In Christ-church cut his throat for jealousy.
And, since the alderman was mad you say,
Then I must be so too, ex traduce.

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A SIMILE, on our want of Silver, and the only

way to remedy it.

Written in the year 1725.

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AS when of old fome forc?refs threw

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

So (if my fimile you minded,
Which I confess is too long-winded)

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+ An alderman,

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When late a feminine magician *,
Join'd with a brazen politician,
Expos’d, to blind the nation's eyes,
A parchment of prodigious fize 1;
Conceal'd behind that ample screen,
There was no silver 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 filver will appear again.

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On Wood the IRONMONGER.

SA

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Written in the year 1725•
Almoneus, as the Grecian tale is,

Was a mad coppersmith of Elis ;
Up at his forge by morning peep,
No creature in the lane could seep.
Among a crew of royft'ring fellows
Would fit whole ev’nings at the alehouse :
His wife and children wanted bread,
While he went always drunk to bed.
This vap'ring scab must needs devise
To ape the thunder of the skies :
With brass two fiery steeds he shod,
To make a clatt'ring as they trod.
Of polifh'd brass his flaming car
Like lightning dazzled from afar ;
And

up

he mounts into the box, And he must thunder, with a pox. * A great lady is reported to have been bribed by Wood, | A patent 1o William Wood, for coining halfpence.

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Then furious he begins his march,
Drives rattling o’er a brazen arch :
With squibs and crackers arm’d to throw
Among the trembling crowd 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 Irish blunder,
To take the noise of brass for thunder.

The moral of this tale is proper,
Apply'd to Wood's adult’rate 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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· WOOD AN INSECT.

Written in the year 1725.
Y long obfervation I have understood, ,

That two little vermin are kind to Will Wood.
The firft is an insect they call a wood-louse,
That folds

up

itself in itself for a house,
As round as a ball, without head, without tail,
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 :

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