'And are these wonders, son, to thee unknown? Unknown to thee? These wonders are thy own. These Fate reserved to grace thy reign divine, Foreseen by me, but ah! withheld from mine. In Lud's old walls though long I ruled, renown'd Far as loud Bow's stupendous bells resound; Though my own Aldermen conferred the bays, To me committing their eternal praise, 280 Their full-fed heroes, their pacific mayors, Their annual trophies, and their monthly wars; Though long my party[372] built on me their hopes, For writing pamphlets, and for roasting popes; Yet lo! in me what authors have to brag on! Reduced at last to hiss in my own dragon. Avert it, Heaven! that thou, my Cibber, e'er Should'st wag a serpent-tail in Smithfield fair! Like the vile straw that's blown about the streets, The needy poet sticks to all he meets, 290 Coach'd, carted, trod upon, now loose, now fast, And carried off in some dog's tail at last; Happier thy fortunes! like a rolling stone, Thy giddy dulness still shall lumber on, Safe in its heaviness, shall never stray, But lick up every blockhead in the way. Thee shall the patriot, thee the courtier taste, And every year be duller than the last; Till raised from booths, to theatre, to court, Her seat imperial Dulness shall transport. 300 Already Opera prepares the way, The sure forerunner of her gentle sway: Let her thy heart, next drabs and dice, engage, The third mad passion of thy doting age. Teach thou the warbling Polypheme[373] to roar, And scream thyself as none e'er scream'd before! To aid our cause, if Heaven thou can'st not bend, Hell thou shalt move; for Faustus[374] is our friend: Pluto with Cato thou for this shalt join, And link the Mourning Bride to Proserpine. 310 Grub Street! thy fall should men and gods conspire, Thy stage shall stand, ensure it but from fire.[375] Another AEschylus appears![376] prepare For new abortions, all ye pregnant fair! In flames, like Semele's, be brought to bed, While opening Hell spouts wild-fire at your head. 'Now, Bavius, take the poppy from thy brow, And place it here! here, all ye heroes, bow! This, this is he, foretold by ancient rhymes: Th' Augustus born to bring Saturnian times. 320 Signs following signs lead on the mighty year! See! the dull stars roll round and re-appear. See, see, our own true Phoebus wears the bays! Our Midas sits Lord Chancellor of Plays! On poets' tombs see Benson's titles writ![377] Lo! Ambrose Philips[378] is preferr'd for wit! See under Ripley rise a new Whitehall, While Jones' and Boyle's united labours fall;[379] While Wren with sorrow to the grave descends, Gay dies unpension'd with a hundred friends; 330 Hibernian politics, O Swift! thy fate; And Pope's, ten years to comment and translate.