Page:The Dunciad - Alexander Pope (1743).djvu/133

102 But that this well-disputed game may end, Sound forth my Brayers, and the welkin rend. As when the long-ear'd milky mothers wait At some sick miser's triple-bolted gate, For their defrauded, absent foals they make A moan so loud, that all the guild awake; Sore sighs Sir Gilbert, starting at the bray, From dreams of millions, and three groats to pay. So swells each wind-pipe; Ass intones to Ass, Harmonic twang! of leather, horn, and brass; Such as from labring lungs th' Enthusiast blows, High Sound, attemp'red to the vocal nose; Or such as bellow from the deep Divine; There Webster! peal'd thy voice, and Whitfield! thine. But far o'er all, sonorous Blackmore's strain; Walls, steeples, skies, bray back to him again.