PROMETHEUS,

                    A

                POEM

WHEN firſt the 'Squire, and Tinker Wood
Gravely conſulting Ireland's Good,
Together mingl'd in a Maſs
Smith's Duſt, and Copper, Lead and Braſs,
The Mixture thus by Chymick Art,
United cloſe in ev'ry Part.
In Fillets roll'd, or cut in Pieces,
Appear'd like one continu'd Spec'es,
And by the forming Engine ſtruck,
On all the ſame IMPRESSION ſtuck.

So to confound, this hated Coin
All Parties and Religions joyn ;
Whigs, Tories, Trimmers, Hannoverians,
Quakers, Conformiſts, Presbyterians,
Scotch, Iriſh, Engliſh, French unite
With equal Int'reſt, equal Spight,
Together mingled in a Lump,
Do all in One Opinion jump ;
And ev'ry one begins to find,
The ſame IMPRESSION on his Mind ;
A ſtrange Event ! whom Gold incites,
To Blood and Quarrels, Braſs unites :
So Goldſmiths ſay, the courſeſt Stuff,
Will ſerve for Sodder well enuff.
So, by the Kettles loud Allarm,
The Bees are gather'd to a Swarm :
So by the Brazen Trumpets Bluſter,
Troops of all Tongues and Nations Muſter :
And ſo the Harp of Ireland brings,
Whole Crouds about its Brazen Strings.

There is a Chain let down from Jove,
But faſten'd to his Throne above ;
So ſtrong, that from the lower End,
They ſay, all human Things depend :
This Chain, as Antient Poets hold,
When Jove was Young, was made of Gold.
Prometheus once this Chain purloin'd,
Diſſolv'd, and into Money Coin'd;
Then whips me on a Chain of Braſs,
(Venus was Brib'd to let it paſs.)

Now while this Brazen Chain prevail'd,
Jove ſaw that all Devotion fail'd ;
No Temple, to his Godſhip rais'd,
No Sacrifice on Altars blaz'd ;
In ſhort ſuch dire Confuſions follow'd,
Earth muſt have been in Chaos ſwallow'd.
Jove ſtood amaz'd, but looking round,
With much ado, the Cheat he found ;
'Twas plain he cou'd no longer hold
The World in any Chain but Gold ;
And to the God of Wealth his Brother,
Sent Mercury to get another.

Prometheus on a Rock is laid,

Ty'd with the Chain himſelf had made ;

On Icy Caucaſus to ſhiver,

While Vultures eat his growing Liver:

Ye Pow'rs of Grub-ſtreet make me able,
Diſcreetly to apply this Fable.
Say, who is to be underſtood,
By that old Thief Prometbeus ? WOOD
For Jove, it is not hard to gueſs him,
I mean His M------, God bleſs him.
This Thief and Black-Smith was ſo bold,
He ſtrove to ſteal that Chain of Gold,
Which links the Subject to the King:
And change it for a Brazen String.
But ſure if nothing elſe muſt paſs,
Between the K---and US but Braſs,
Altho' the Chain will never crack,
Yet Our Devotion may Grow Slack.

But Jove will ſoon convert I hope,
This Brazen Chain into a Rope;
With which Prometheus ſhall be ty'd,
And high in Air for ever ride ;
Where, if we find his Liver grows,
For want of Vultures, we have Crows.

                      FINIS.

       DUBLIN : Printed in the Year, 1724.