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THE

BUBBLE.

Apparent rari nantes in gurgite vasto;
Arma virum, tabulæque & Troja gaza per undas. Virg.

E wife Philofophers explain,

What Magick makes our Money rife,
When dropt into the Southern Main,
Or do thefe Juglers cheat our Eyes?

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Thus, in a Bafon, drop a Shilling,
Then fill the Veffel to the Brim;
You shall obferve as you are filling,
The pond'rous Mettle feems to fwim.

It rifes both in Bulk and Height,

Behold it mounting to the Top;
The liquid Medium cheats your Sight,
Behold it fwelling like a Sop.

In stock Three Hundred Thoufand Pounds;

I have in View a Lord's Eftate;

My Mannors all contiguous round; A Coach and Six, and ferv'd in Plate!

Thus the deluded Bankrupt raves,

Puts all upon a des'prate Bett;

Then plunges in the Southern Waves,

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It must be fome enchanted Grove; And in he leaps, and down he finks.

Two Hundred Chariors juft befpoke, Are funk in these dévouring Waves;

The Horfes drown'd, the Harness broke, And here the Owners find their Graves.

Like Pharaoh, by DIRECTORS led, They with their Spoils went fafe before, His Chariots tumbling out the Dead, Lay fhatter'd on the Red-Sea Shore.

Rais'd up on Hope's afpiring Plumes, The young Advent'rer o'er the Deep

An Eagle's Flight and State affumes, And fcorns the middle Way to keep:

On Paper-Wings he takes his Flight, With Wax the Feather bound 'em faft; The Wax is melted by the Height, And down the tow'ring Boy is caft.

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His Wings are his Paternal Rent, He melts his Wax at ev'ry Flame;

His Credit funk, his Money spent, In Southern Seas he leaves his Name.

Inform us, you, that best can tell,
Why in yon dang'rous Gulph profound,
Where Hundreds, and where Thousands fell,
Fools chiefly float, the Wife are drown'd.

So have I feen from Severn's Brink,
A Flock of Geefe jump down together;
Swim where the Bird of Jove would fink,
And swimming, never wet a Feather.

But I affirm, 'tis falfe in Fact,
DIRECTORS better know their Tools;
We fee the Nation's Credit crackt,
Each Knaye hath made a Thousand Fools.

One Fool may

from another win,

And then get off with Money ftor'd;

But if a Sharper once comes in,
He throws at all, and fweeps the Board.

As Fishes on each other prey,

The Great ones fwallowing up the Small;

So

So fares it in the Southern Sea,

But Whale-DIRECTORS eat up all.

When Stock is high, they come between,
Making by fecond-hand their Offers;
Then cunningly retire unfeen,

With each a Million in his Coffers.

So when upon a Moon-shine Night, An Afs was drinking at a Stream;

A Cloud arofe, and ftop'd the Light, By intercepting ev'ry Beam.

The Day of Judgment will be foon, Cries out a Sage among the Crowd; An Afs hath swallow'd up the Moon, The Moon lay fafe behind the Cloud.

Each poor Subfcriber to the Sea
Sinks down at once, and there he lies;
DIRECTORS fall as well as they,

Their Fall is but a Trick to rise.

So Fishes rifing from the Main,
Can foar with moisten'd Wings on high;
The Moisture dry'd, they fink again,
And dip their Fins again to fly.

- Undone

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