When o’er the craggy steep without control,
Big with the blast, the raging billows roll;
Not towns beleaguer’d, not the flaming brand,
Darted from Heaven by Jove’s avenging hand,
Oft as on impious men his wrath he pours,
Humbles their pride and blasts their gilded towers,
Equal the tumult of this wild uproar: 
Waves rush o’er waves, rebellows shore to shore. 
The neighbouring race, though wont to brave the shocks
Of angry seas, and run along the rocks,
Now, pale with terror, while the ocean foams,
Fly far and wide, nor trust their native homes. 
  The goats, while, pendent from the mountain top,
The wither’d herb improvident they crop,
Wash’d down the precipice with sudden sweep,
Leave their sweet lives beneath th’unfathom’d deep. 
  The frighted fisher, with desponding eyes,
Though safe, yet trembling in the harbour lies,
Nor hoping to behold the skies serene,
Wearies with vows the monarch of the main.

COPY OF THE BIRTH-DAY VERSES

ON MR. FORD[1]

COME, be content, since out it must,
For Stella has betray’d her trust;
And, whispering, charged me not to say
That Mr. Ford was born to-day;
Or, if at last I needs must blab it,
According to my usual habit,
She bid me, with a serious face,
Be sure conceal the time and place;
And not my compliment to spoil,
By calling this your native soil;
Or vex the ladies, when they knew
That you are turning forty-two: 
But, if these topics shall appear
Strong arguments to keep you here,
I think, though you judge hardly of it,
Good manners must give place to profit. 
  The nymphs, with whom you first began,
Are each become a harridan;
And Montague so far decay’d,
Her lovers now must all be paid;
And every belle that since arose,
Has her contemporary beaux. 
Your former comrades, once so bright,
With whom you toasted half the night,
Of rheumatism and pox complain,
And bid adieu to dear champaign. 
Your great protectors, once in power,
Are now in exile or the Tower. 
Your foes triumphant o’er the laws,
Who hate your person and your cause,
If once they get you on the spot,
You must be guilty of the plot;
For, true or false, they’ll ne’er inquire,
But use you ten times worse than Prior. 
  In London! what would you do there? 
Can you, my friend, with patience bear
(Nay, would it not your passion raise
Worse than a pun, or Irish phrase)
To see a scoundrel strut and hector,
A foot-boy to some rogue director,
To look on vice triumphant round,
And virtue trampled on the ground? 
Observe where bloody **** stands
With torturing engines in his hands,
Hear him blaspheme, and swear, and rail,
Threatening the pillory and jail: 
If this you think a pleasing scene,
To London straight return again;