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We'll rig in Meath-street Ægypt's haughty Queen ;
OH! could I see this Audience clad in Stuff; Tho'Money's scarce, we should have Trade enough; But Chints, Brocades, and Lace, take all away, And scarce a Crown is left to see a Play. Perhaps you wonder whence this Friendship springs Between the Weavers and us Play-house Kings: But Wit and Weaving had the fame Beginning; Pallas first taught us Poetry and Spinning: And next observe how this Alliance fits, For Weavers now are just as poor as Wits : Their Brother Quill-Men, Workers for the Stage, For forry Stuff can get a Crown a Page ; But Weavers will be kinder to the Players, And fell for Twenty Pence a Yard of theirs. And, to your Knowledge, there is often less in The Poet's Wit, than in the Player's Dressing.
PETHOX the Great.
Written in the Year 1723.
ROM Venus born, thy Beauty shows;
But who thy Father, no Man knows ; Nor can the skilful Herald trace The Founder of thy ancient Race: Whether thy Temper, full of Fire, Discovers Vulcan for thy Sire; The God who made Scamander boil, And round his Margin sindg'd the Soil ; (From whence Philosophers agree, An equal Pow'r descends to thee.) Whether from dreadful Mars you claim The high Descent from whence you came, And, as a Proof, shew num'rous Scars, By fierce Encounters made in Wars; (Those honourable Wounds you bore From Head to Foot, and all before ;) And still the bloody Field frequent, Familiar in each Leader's Tent. Or whether, as the Learn'd contend, You from the neighb'ring Gaul descend; Or from * Parthenope the Proud, Where numberless thy Vot'ries crowd.
Whether thy great Forefathers came
Thy fair indulgent Mother crown'd Thy Head with sparkling Rubies round; Beneath thy decent Steps, the Road Is all with precious Jewels strow'd. The * Bird of Pallas knows his Post, Thee to attend, where-e'er thou go'st.
BYZANTIANS boast, that on the Clod, Where once their Sultan's Horse hath trod, Grows neither Grafs, nor Shrub, nor Tree, The same thy Subjects boast of Thee.
The greatest Lord, when you appear, Will deign your Livery to wear, In all thy various Colours seen, Of Red, and Yellow, Blue, and Green.
* Bubo, the Owl.
With half a Word, when you require, The Man of Business must retire.
The haughty Minister of State, With Trembling must thy Leisure wait
; And while his Fate is in thy Hands, The Bus’ness of the Nation stands.
Thou dar'it the greatest Prince attack,
From thee our Youth all Virtues learn;
The glittring Beau could hardly tell,
With what Delight, methinks, I trace
The Britons, once a favage Kind,
have molded them afresh,
PROTEUS on you bestow'd the Boon
How fam'd thy Conduct in the Fight,