Page:The dispensary - a poem in six canto's (sic) (IA b30356775).pdf/31

 Here Phyals in nice Discipline are set, There Gally-pots are rang'd in Alphabet. In this place, Magazines of Pills you spy; In that, like Forage, Herbs in Bundles lye. While lifted Pestles brandish'd in the Air Descend in Peals, and Civil Wars declare. Loud Streaks, with pounding Spice, the Fabrick rend, And Aromatick Clouds in Spires ascend.

So when the Cyclops o'er their Anvils sweat, And swelling Sinews ecchoing Blows repeat; From the Volcano's gross Eruptions rife, And curling Sheets of Smoke obscure the Skies,

The slumb'ring God amaz'd at this new Din, Thrice strove to rise, and thrice sunk down agen. Listless he stretch'd, and gaping rubb'd his Eyes, Then falter'd thus betwixt half Words and Sighs

How impotent a Deity am I! With Godhead born, but curs'd, that cannot die! Thro' my Indulgence, Mortals hourly share A grateful Negligence, and Ease from Care. Lull'd in my Arms, how long have I with-held The Northern Monarchs from the dusty Field. How have I kept the British Fleet at Ease, From tempting the rough Dangers of the Seas. Hibernia owns the Mildness of my Reign, And my Divinity's ador'd in Spain. I Swains to Sylvan Solitudes convey, Where stretch'd on Mossy Beds, they waste away, In gentle Joys the Night, in Vows the Day. What