[5] Like _South-Sea Stock_, Expressions rise and fall: King _Edward_'s Words are now no Words at all. Did ought your Predecessors Genius cramp? Sure ev'ry Reign may have it's proper Stamp. All Sublunary things of Death partake; What Alteration does a Cent'ry make? Kings and Comedians all are mortal found, _Cæsar_ and _Pinkethman_ are under Ground. What's not destroy'd by Times devouring Hand? Where's _Troy_, and where's the _May-Pole_ in the _Strand_? Pease, Cabbages, and Turnips once grew, where Now stands new _Bond-street_, and a newer Square; Such Piles of Buildings now rise up and down; London itself seems going out of _Town_. Our Fathers cross'd from _Fulham_ in a Wherry, Their Sons enjoy a Bridge at _Putney-Ferry_. Think we that modern Words eternal are? _Toupet_, and _Tompion_, _Cosins_, and _Colmar_ Hereafter will be call'd by some plain Man A _Wig_, a _Watch_, a _Pair of Stays_, a _Fan_. To Things themselves if Time such change affords, Can there be any trusting to our Words. [6] To screen good Ministers from Publick rage,) And how with Party Madness to engage,) We learn from _Addison_'s immortal Page.) The _Jacobite_'s ridiculous Opinion Is seen from _Tickel_'s Letter to _Avignon_. But who puts _Caleb_'s _Country-Craftsman_ out, Is still a secret, and the World's in doubt. [7] Not long since _Parish-Clerks_, with saucy airs, Apply'd _King David_'s _Psalms_ to _State-Affairs_. Some certain _Tunes_ to Politicks belong, On both Sides Drunkards love a Party-Song. [8] If full a-cross the Speaker's Chair I go, Can I be said the _Rules_ o'th' _House_ to know? I'll ask, nor give offence without intent, Nor through meer Sheepishness be impudent. [9] In _Acts of Parliament_ avoid Sublime, Nor e'er Address his Majesty in Rhime; An _Act of Parliament_'s a serious thing, Begins with Year of Lord and Year of King; Keeps close to Form, in every word is strict, When it would _Pains_ and _Penalties_ inflict. Soft Words suit best _Petitioners_ intent; Soft Words, O ye _Petitioners_ of Kent! [10] Who e'er harangues before he gives his Vote, Should send sweet Language from a tuneful Throat. _Pultney_ the coldest Breast with Zeal can fire, And _Roman Thoughts_ by _Attick Stile_ inspire; He knows from tedious Wranglings to beguile The serious _House_ into a chearful Smile; When the great Patriot paints his anxious Fears For _England_'s Safety, I am lost in Tears. But when dull Speakers strive to move compassion, I pity their poor Hearers, not the Nation: Unless young _Members_ to the purpose speak, I fall a laughing, or I fall asleep.