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Till Metamorphos'd by his Grafp,
It grew an All-devouring Afp;
Would hifs, and fting, and roll, and twist,
By the meer Virtue of his Fift:
But when he laid it down, as quick
Refum'd the Figure of a Stick.
So to her Midnight Feafts the Hag,
Rides on a Broomftick for a Nag,
That, rais'd by Magick of her Breech,
O'er Sea and Land conveys the Witch
But, with the Morning-Dawn, refumes
The Peaceful State of common Brooms.
THEY tell us fomething ftrange and odd,
About a certain Magick Rod,
That, bending down its Top, divines
When e'er the Soil has Golden Mines:
Where there are none, it ftands erect,
Scorning to fhew the leaft Refpect.
As ready was the Wand of Sid
To bend where Golden Mines were hid
In Scottish Hills found precious Ore,
Where none e'er look'd for it before;
And, by a gentle Bow, divin'd
How well a Cully's Purfe was lin'd:
To a forelorn and broken Rake,
Stood without Motion, like a Stake.
THE Rod of Hermes was renown'd
For Charms above and under Ground
To fleep could mortal Eye-lids fix,
And drive departed Souls to Styx.
That Rod was just a Type of Sid's,
Which, o'er a Brittish Senate's Lids,
Could featter Opium full as well,
And drive as many Souls to Hell.
SID's Rod was flender, white, and tall,
Which oft he us'd to ff withal:
A PLACE was faftned to the Hook,
And many a Score of Gudgeons took ;
Yet, ftill fo happy was his Fate,
He caught his. Fifb, and fav'd his Bait.
SID's Brethren of the Conj'ring Tribe
A Circle with their Rod defcribe,
Which proves a Magical Redoubt
To keep Mifchievous Spirits out:
Sid's Rod was of a larger Stride,
And made a Circle twice as wide,
Where Spirits throng'd with hideous Din,
And he ftood there to take them in.
But, when th' enchanted Rod was broke,
They vanifh'd in a flinking Smoak.
ACHILLES's Scepter was of Wood,
Like Sid's, but nothing near fo good;
Tho', down from Ancestors divine
Tranfmitted to the Heroe's Line,
Thence, thro' a long Descent of Kings,
Came an HEIR-LOOM, as Homer fings,
Tho' this Defcription looks fo big,
That Scepter was a faplefs Twig:
Which, from the fatal Day when firft
It left the Foreft where 'twas nurst,
As Homer tells us o'er and o'er,
Nor Leaf, nor Fruit, no Bloffom bore.
Sid's Scepter full of Juice did fhoot
In Golden Boughs, and Golden Fruit,
And He, the Dragon never fleeping,
Guarded each fair Hefperian Pippin.
No Hobby-Horfe, with gorgeous Top,
The deareftan Charles Mather's Shop,
Or glitt'ring Tinfel of May Fair,
Could with this Rod of Sid compare.
DEAR Sid, then why wert thou fo mad,
To break thy Rod like naughty Lad?o dug
You fhould have kifs'd it in your Distress,
And then return'd it to your Miftrefs;
Or make it a New-market Switch,
And not a Rod for thy own Breech.
For fince old Sid has broken this,
His next will be a Rod in Pifs.
And Addrefs'd to: a NOBLE LORD.
ARLEY, the Nation's Great Support, Returning home one day from Court, His Mind with Publick Cares poffeft, All Europe's Bus'nefs in his Breft. Obferv'd a Perfon near Whitehall, Cheap'ning Old Authors on a Stall, The Prieft was pretty well in Cafe, And fhew'd fome Humour in his Face, Look'd with an Eafy Carelets Mein; A perfect Stranger to the Spleen : Of Size that might a Pulpit fill, But more inclining to fit till. My Lord, who as a Man may fay't, Loves Mifchief better than his Meat;
Was now difpos'd to crack a Jeft,
And bid Friend Lewis go in Queft.
This Lewis was a cunning Shaver,
And very much in Harley's Favour.
In Quest 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;
Away upon his Errand goes:
And quickly did the Matter Sift,
Found out that it was Doctor St.
A Clergy man of fpecial Note,
For fhunning thofe of his own Coat;
Which made his Brethren of the Gown,
Take care in time to run him down.
No Libertine, nor over Nice,
Addicted to no fort of Vice.
Went where he pleas'd, faid what he thought, Not Rich, but ow'd no Man a Groat.
In State Opinions Alamode,
But hated Whn like a Toad.
He had given the Faction many a Wound,
And Libell'd'all the fundo round..
Kept Company with Men of Wit,
Who often Father'd what he writ.
His Works were Hawk't in every Street,
But feldom rofe above a Sheet.
Of late indeed the Paper Stamp,
Did very much his Genius cramp:
And fince he could not fpend his Fire,
Is now contented to retire.
Said Harley, I defire to know
From his own Mouth if this be fo;
Step to the Doctor ftraight and fay,
de have him Dine with me to Day.