And as Those crackle in the Flames, and die,
So let its Vessels burst, and Glasses fly.
But a sinister Cricket strait was heard,
The Altar fell, the Offering disappear'd.
As the fam'd Wight the Omen did regret,
Squirt brought the News the Company was met.
Nigh where Fleet-Ditch descends in fable Streams,
To wash his sooty Naiads in the Thames;
There stands a [1]Structure on a rising Hill,
Where Tyros take their Freedom out to kill.
Some Pictures in these dreadful Shambles tell,
How by the Delian God, the Pithon fell;
And how Medea did the Philter brew,
That cou'd in Æson's Veins young Force renew.
How mournful, [2]Myrrha for her Crimes appears,
And heals hysterick Matrons still with Tears.
How Mentha and Althea, Nymphs no more,
Revive in sacred Plants, and Health restore.
How sanguine Swains their am'rous Hours repent,
When Pleasure's past and Pains are permanent;
And how frail Nymphs, oft by Abortion, aim
To lose a Substance, to preserve a Name.
Soon as each Member in his Rank was plac'd,
Th' Assembly Diasenna thus address'd.
My kind Confederates, if my poor Intent,
As 'tis sincere, had been but prevalent,
We here had met on some more safe Design,
And on no other Bus'ness but to Dine;
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The Dispensary.
