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So fishes, rifing from the main,
Can foar with moisten'd wings on high;
Undone at play, the female troops
Thus Venus to the fea defcends,
As poets feign; but where's the moral ? It fhews the Queen of Love intends
To search the deep for pearl and coral.
I heard it from my grannam's mouth,
Thus by directors we are told,
"Pray, Gentlemen, believe your eyes;
Our ocean's cover'd o'er with gold,
Look round, and fee how thick it lies:
We, Gentlemen, are your affifters,
We 'll come, and hold you by the chin.
Oh! would those patriots be fo kind,
A fhilling in the bath you fling,
At market for a farthing more,
Or view it through a joober's bill;
One night a fool into a brook 1
The point he could no longer doubt;
He ran, he leapt into the flood:
There sprawl'd a while, and fearce got out,
"Upon the water, caft thy bread,
"And after many days thou 'It find it But gold upon this ocean fpread
Shall fink, and leave no mark behind it.
Nine times a day it ebbs and flows,
The time it falls, or when 'twill rife.
Subscribers here by thousands float,
And here they fish for gold, and drown.
"At their wits end, like drunken men."
But thefe, you fay, are factious lyes,
From fome malicious Tory's brain;
For, where Directors get a prize,
The Swifs and Dutch whole millions drain.
Thus, when by rooks a lord is ply'd,
While fome build caftles in the air,
Subfcribers plainly fee them there,
For fools will fee as wife men please.
Pfalm cvii. † A coffee-house in Change-Alley.
Thus oft' by mariners are shown
you in your paffing by.
Then, like the dogs of Nile, be wise,
Run as they drink, and drink and run.
Antæus could, by magic charms,
And fent him up in air to hell.
Directors, thrown into the fea,
Directors! for 'tis you I warn,
Beware, nor over-bulky grow,
Nor come within your cully's reach ;
You'll owe your
ruin to your bulk 8
Your foes already waiting ftand, To tear you like a founder'd hulk,
While you lie helpless on the fand.
Thus, when a whale hath loft the tide,
And ftrip the bones, and melt the oil.
Driv'n from the South-Sea to the Red.
May he, whom Nature's laws obey,
Who lifts the poor, and finks the proud, "Quiet the raging of the fea,
"And ftill the madness of the crowd!",
But never fhall our isle have reft,
Till thofe devouring faine run down, (The devils leaving the poffeft,)
And headlong in the waters drown.
The nation then too late will find,
South-Sea at beft a mighty bubble.