Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/328

316 Unless, like the Dutch, you rather would boil This coiner of raps in a cauldron of oil. Then choose which you please, and let each bring a faggot, For our fear's at an end with the death of the maggot.

, as the Grecian tale is, Was a mad coppersmith of Elis; Up at his forge by morning peep, No creature in the lane could sleep; Among a crew of roystering fellows Would sit whole evenings at the alehouse: His wife and children wanted bread, While he went always drunk to bed. This vapouring scab must needs devise To ape the thunder of the skies: With brass two fiery steeds he shod, To make a clattering as they trod. Of polish'd brass his flaming car Like lightning dazzled from afar; And up he mounts into the box, And he must thunder, with a pox. Then furious he begins his march, Drives rattling o'er a brazen arch: With squibs and crackers arm'd, to throw Among the trembling crowd below. All ran to prayers, both priests and laity, To pacify this angry deity: When