On the Monument upon Fish-street Hill.
When
Hodge first spy'd the Labour-in-vain,
Grown since he pass'd by Pudding-lane;
To reach his Chin up as he gaz'd,
Till level'd with his Forehead rais'd,
With Face that Horizontal lies,
With gaping Mouth and staring Eyes;
Supporting on his Staff his Jaw,
He took the Height of what he saw:
As one that makes an Observation,
Chap fall'n he stood with Admiration.
Hodge was (altho to Cart confin'd)
A Virtuoso in his kind;
And long he stockt up in his Crown
Whate'er he saw or heard in Town:
Within his musty Fancy mew'd,
Heated into Similitude:
That whatsoever Subject fell,
He Bargains ready had to sell.
Tho the Similitude's most pat,
Shews that Men say they know not what.
The Description.
A new Spout to quench the Fire,
Or else to draw the Smoak up higher:
A Model of a Pepper-Box,
Or Microscope to view an Ox;
Or else a Candlestick to place a Light
For such as travel in the Night:
Or Christmas Candle over-grown,
Not to shew Light, but to be shown:
Or else a Torch with gilded Flames,
To steer the Boats that row on Thames:
Or else a Piece of Art and Labour,
Of Hook---out Architecting Baber.
When long he thus himself had guest,
Nor could the swallow'd Sight digest;
He ask'd a Wag at the next Stall,
To whom belongs this House so tall?
The Boy's Answer.
The City Monument is this,
In token that our Mayor did piss.
It seems when London's Mayor does stale,
She by consent too lays her Tail.
Bodies so great may bear the Expence
Of such a vast Sirreverence:
But 'tis a Heap which would have rent
All but the City's Fundament.
