"But where," say they, "shall we bestow these 66 weavers,

"That spread our streets, and are such piteous 66 cravers ?"

The silk worms (brittle beings!) prone to fate,
Demand their care, to make their webs complete:
These may they tend, their promises receive;
We cannot pay too much for what they give!

"TIS

ON GALLSTOWN HOUSE*.

BY DR. DELANY†.

IS so old, and so ugly, and yet so convenient, You're sometimes in pleasure, though often in pain

in't.

'Tis so large you may lodge a few friends with ease

in't,

You may turn and stretch at your length if

please in't;

you

'Tis so little, the family live in a press in't, And poor lady Betty has scarce room to dress in't;

* The seat of George Rochfort, esq., father to the earl of Belvidere. Several pleasantries of this gentleman, Dr. Delany, and a groupe of their intimate friends, are to be found in different parts of this collection.

+ See the dean's poetical epistle to this gentleman, vol. VII, page 150.

Daughter of the earl of Drogheda, and married to George Rochfort, esq.

"Tis

'Tis so cold in the winter, you can't bear to lie in't, And so hot in the summer, you're ready to fry in't; 'Tis so brittle 'twould scarce bear the weight of a

tun,

Yet so staunch, that it keeps out a great deal of sun; 'Tis so crazy, the weather with ease beats quite through it,

And you're forced every year in some part to renew

it;

'Tis so ugly, so useful, so big, and so little,

'Tis so staunch, and so crazy, so strong, and so

brittle,

'Tis at one time so hot, and another so cold,

It is part of the new, and part of the old;

It is just half a blessing, and just half a curse-
I wish then, dear George, it were better or worse.

ON THE GREAT BURIED BOTTLE*.

BY DR. DELANY,

AMPHORA, quæ mæstum linquis, lætumque

revises

Arentem dominum, sit tibi terra levis.

Tu quoque depositum serves, neve opprime, marmor; Amphora non meruit tam pretiosa mori.

* See vol. VII, page 235.

VOL. XVIII.

FF

EPITAPH,

EPITAPH, BY THE SAME.

HOC tumulata jacet proles Lenæa sepulchro,
Immortale genus, nec peritura jacet ;
Quin oritura iterum, matris concreditur alvo;
Bis natum referunt te quoque, Bacche Pater.

PROMETHEUS.

ON

*

WOOD THE PATENTEE'S IRISH HAlfpence. 1724.

I.

As when the squire and tinker Wood,

Gravely consulting Ireland's good,
Together mingled in a mass

Smith's dust, and copper, lead, and brass;
The mixture thus by chymick art

United close in ev'ry part,

In fillets roll'd, or cut in pieces,
Appear'd like one continued species;
And, by the forming engine struck,
On all the same impression stuck.
So, to confound this hated coin,
All parties and religions join;
Whigs, tories, trimmers, Hanoverians,
Quakers, conformists, presbyterians,

See an account of Wood's project in the Drapier's Letters.

Scotch,

Scotch, Irish, English, French unite,
With equal int'rest, equal spite;
Together mingled in a lump,
Do all in one opinion jump;
And ev'ry one begins to find
The same impression on his mind.

A strange event! whom gold incites
To blood and quarrels, brass unites :
So goldsmiths say, the coarsest stuff
Will serve for solder well enough:
So by the kettle's loud alarm
The bees are gather'd to a swarm:
So by the brazen trumpet's bluster
Troops of all tongues and nations muster :
And so the harp of Ireland brings
Whole crowds about its brazen strings.

II.

There is a chain let down from Jove,
But fasten'd to his throne above,
So strong that from the lower end,
They say, all human things depend.
This chain, as ancient poets hold,
When Jove was young, was made of gold.
Prometheus once this chain purloin'd,

Dissolved, and into money coin'd;
Then whips me on a chain of brass:

*

(Venus was bribed to let it pass.)

Now while this brazen chain prevail'd,

Jove saw that all devotion fail'd;

No temple to his godship raised;

No sacrifice at altars blazed;

A great lady was said to have been bribed by Wood.

In short, such dire confusion follow'd,
Earth must have been in chaos swallow'd.
Jove stood amazed; but looking round,
With much ado the cheat he found;
'Twas plain he could no longer hold
The world in any chain but gold;
And to the god of wealth, his brother,
Sent Mercury to get another.

Prometheus on a rock is laid,

Tied with a chain himself had made,
On icy Caucasus to shiver,

While vultures eat his growing liver.

III.

Ye pow'rs of Grub street, make me able Discreetly to apply this fable;

Say, who is to be understood

;

By that old thief Prometheus? Wood.
For Jove it is not hard to guess him;
I mean his majesty, God bless him.
This thief and blacksmith was so bold,
He strove to steal that chain of gold,
Which links the subject to the king,
And change it for a brazen string.
But sure, if nothing else must pass
Between the king and us but brass,
Although the chain will never crack,
Yet our devotion may grow slack.

But Jove will soon convert, I hope,
This brazen chain into a rope;
With which Prometheus shall be tied,
And high in air for ever ride;
Where, if we find his liver grows,
For want of vultures, we have crows.

A YOUNG