In Tyber ducking thrice, by break of day,
To wash th' obscenities of night away.

But pr'ythee tell me, ('tis a small request)
With what ill thoughts of Jove art thou poffeft?
Wouldst thou prefer him to fome man? Suppose
I dipp'd among the worst, and Staius chose ?
Which of the two would thy wife head declare
The truftier tutor to an orphan heir?

Or, put it thus:---Unfold to Staius, ftreight,
What to Jove's ear thou didst impart of late:
He'll ftare, and, O good Jupiter! will cry;
Can't thou indulge him in this villainy!

And think'st thou, Jove himself, with patience

then

Can hear a pray'r condemn'd by wicked men?
That, void of care, he lolls fupine in state,
And leaves his bus'ness to be done by fate?
Because his thunder splits fome burley tree,
And is not darted at thy house and thee?
Or that his vengeance falls not at the time,
Juft at the perpetration of thy crime:
And makes thee a fad object of our eyes,
Fit for Ergenna's pray'r and facrifice?
What well-fed off'ring to appease the God,
What pow'rful prefent to procure a nod,

Haft thou in ftore? What bribe haft thou prepar'd,
To pull him, thus unpunish'd, by the beard?
Our fuperftitions with our life begin:

Th' obfcene old grandam, or the next of kin,
The new-born infant from the cradle takes,
And first of spittle a lustration makes;
Then in the spawl her middle-finger dips,
Anoints the temples, forehead, and the lips,
Pretending force of magick to prevent,
By virtue of her nafty excrement.

Then dandles him with many a mutter'd pray'r
That heav'n would make him fome rich mifer's

heir,

Lucky to ladies, and, in time, a king;

Which to enfure, fhe adds a length of navel-ftring.
But no fond nurse is fit to make a pray'r:
And Jove, if Jove be wife, will never hear;
Not tho fhe prays in white, with lifted hands:
A body made of brafs the crone demands
For her lov'd nurfling, ftrung with nerves of wire,
Tough to the last, and with no toil to tire:
Unconscionable vows, which when we ufe,
We teach the Gods, in reafon, to refuse.
Suppofe they were indulgent to thy wish;
Yet the fat intrails in the fpacious dish,

Would stop the grant: the very over-care
And nauseous pomp, would hinder half the pray'r,
Thou hop'ft with facrifice of oxen flain

To compafs wealth, and bribe the God of gain,
To give thee flocks and herds, with large increase;
Fool! to expect them from a bullock's grease!
And think'ft that when the fatten'd flames afpire,
Thou fee'st th' accomplishment of thy defire!
Now, now, my bearded harvest gilds the plain,
The fcanty folds can fcarce my fheep contain,
And showers of gold come pouring in amain !
Thus dreams the wretch, and vainly thus dreams

on,

Till his lank purfe declares his money gone.
Should I present them with rare figur'd plate,
Or gold as rich in workmanship as weight;
O how thy rifing heart would throb and beat,
And thy left fide, with trembling pleasure, fweat!
Thou measur'ft by thyfelf the Pow'rs Divine;
Thy Gods are burnifh'd, gold and filver is their
fhrine.

Thy puny Godlings of inferior race,

Whofe humble ftatues are content with brafs,

Should fome of thefe, in vifions purg'd from phlegm,

Foretel events, or in a morning dream

Ev'n those thou wouldst in veneration hold;
And, if not faces, give 'em beards of gold.
The priests in temples, now no longer care
For Saturn's brafs, or Numa's earthen ware;
Or vestal urns, in each religious rite:

This wicked gold has put 'em all to flight.
O fouls, in whom no heav'nly fire is found,
Fat minds, and ever grov'ling on the ground!.
We bring our manners to the bleft abodes,
And think what pleafes us muft please the Gods,
Of oil and caffia one th' ingredients takes,
And, of the mixture, a rich ointment makes:
Another finds the way to dye in grain;

And makes Calabrian wool receive the Tyrian ftain;

rife:

Or from the fhells their orient treasure takes,
Or, for their golden ore; in rivers rakes;
Then melts the mafs: all these are vanities!
Yet ftill fome profit from their pains may
But tell me, prieft, if I may be fo bold,
What are the Gods the better for this gold?
The wretch that offers from his wealthy ftore
These presents, bribes the Pow'rs to give him more:
As maids to Venus offer baby-toys,

To blefs the marriage-bed with girls and boys,

But let us for the Gods a gift prepare,

Which the great man's great charges cannot bear :
A foul, where laws both human and divine,
In practice more than fpeculation shine:
A genuine virtue, of a vigorous kind,
Pure in the last receffes of the mind:
When with fuch off'rings to the Gods I come,

A cake, thus giv'n, is worth a hecatomb.