University of Virginia Library

No sooner did the Grey-Ey'd Morning peep,
And yawning Mortals stretch themselves from sleep;
Finders of Gold were now but newly past,
And Basket-Women did to Market haste:
The Watchmen were but just returning home,
To give the Thieves more Liberty to roam,
When from a Hill, by growing Beams of Light,
A stately Pile was offered to the Sight;
Three spacious Doors let Passengers go through,
And distant Stones did terminate their view:
Just here, as Ancient Poets sing, there stood,
The Noble Palace of the Valiant Lud;
His Image now appears in Portland Stone,
Each side supported by a God-like Son.
But underneath all the Three Heroes Shine,
In Living Colours, drawn upon a Sign,
Which shows the way to Ale, but not to Wine.
Near is a Place enclos'd with Iron-Bars,
Where many Mortals Curse their Cruel Stars,
When brought by Usurers into Distress,
For having Little, still must live on Less:
Stern Avarice keeps the Relentless Door,
And bids each Wretch Eternally be Poor.
Hence Hunger rises, dismally he Stalks,
And takes each single Pris'ner in his Walks:
This Duty done, the meager Monster stares,
Holds up his Bones, and thus begins his Pray'rs.
Thou Goddess Famine, that canst send us Blights,
With parching Heat by Day, and Storm by Nights:
Assist me now, so may all Lands be thine,
And Shoals of Orphans at thy Altars pine:
Long may thy Reign continue on each Shore,
Where-ever Peace and Plenty reign'd before.
I must confess, that to thy gracious Hand,
I Widows owe, that are at my Command;
I joy to hear their numerous Childrens Cries,
And bless thy Power to find they've no Supplies.
I thank thee for those Martyrs who would fly,
From Superstitious Rites and Tyranny,
And find their fullness of reward in me.
But 'tis with much Humility I own,
That generous Favour you have lately shown,
When Men that bravely have their Country, serv'd,
Receiv'd the just Reward that they deserv'd,
And are preferr'd to me, and shall be starv'd.
I can, but with Regret, I can despise,
Innumerable of the London Cries:
When Pease, and Mack'rel, with their harsher Sound,
The tender Organs of my Ears confound;
But that which makes my Projects all miscarry,
Is this Inhuman, Fatal Furmetary.

Not far from hence, just by the Bridge of Fleet,
With Spoon and Porringers, and Napkin neat,
A Faithless Syren does entice the Sense,
By Fumes of Viands, which she does dispence,
To mortal Stomachs, for rewarding Pence.
Whilst each Man's earliest Thoughts would banish me,
Who have no other Oracle but thee.