Subscribers here by thousands float,
  And jostle one another down;
Each paddling in his leaky boat,
  And here they fish for gold, and drown.

“Now buried in the depth below,
  Now mounted up to Heaven again,
They reel and stagger to and fro,
  At their wits’ end, like drunken men."[4]

Meantime, secure on Garway[5] cliffs,
  A savage race, by shipwrecks fed,
Lie waiting for the founder’d skiffs,
  And strip the bodies of the dead.

But these, you say, are factious lies,
  From some malicious Tory’s brain;
For, where directors get a prize,
  The Swiss and Dutch whole millions drain.

Thus, when by rooks a lord is plied,
  Some cully often wins a bet,
By venturing on the cheating side,
  Though not into the secret let.

While some build castles in the air,
  Directors build them in the seas;
Subscribers plainly see them there,
  For fools will see as wise men please.

Thus oft by mariners are shown
  (Unless the men of Kent are liars)
Earl Godwin’s castles overflown,
  And palace roofs, and steeple spires.

Mark where the sly directors creep,
  Nor to the shore approach too nigh! 
The monsters nestle in the deep,
  To seize you in your passing by.

Then, like the dogs of Nile, be wise,
  Who, taught by instinct how to shun
The crocodile, that lurking lies,
  Run as they drink, and drink and run.

Antaeus could, by magic charms,
  Recover strength whene’er he fell;
Alcides held him in his arms,
  And sent him up in air to Hell.

Directors, thrown into the sea,
  Recover strength and vigour there;
But may be tamed another way,
  Suspended for a while in air.

Directors! for ’tis you I warn,
  By long experience we have found
What planet ruled when you were born;
  We see you never can be drown’d.

Beware, nor overbulky grow,
  Nor come within your cully’s reach;
For, if the sea should sink so low
  To leave you dry upon the beach,

You’ll owe your ruin to your bulk: 
  Your foes already waiting stand,
To tear you like a founder’d hulk,
  While you lie helpless on the sand.

Thus, when a whale has lost the tide,
  The coasters crowd to seize the spoil: 
The monster into parts divide,
  And strip the bones, and melt the oil.

Oh! may some western tempest sweep
  These locusts whom our fruits have fed,
That plague, directors, to the deep,
  Driven from the South Sea to the Red!

May he, whom Nature’s laws obey,
  Who lifts the poor, and sinks the proud,
“Quiet the raging of the sea,
  And still the madness of the crowd!”

But never shall our isle have rest,
  Till those devouring swine run down,
(The devils leaving the possest)
  And headlong in the waters drown.