Prometheus, on Wood the Patentee's Irish Halfpence, 1724

When first the squire and tinker WoodGravely consulting Ireland's good,Together mingled in a massSmith's dust, and copper, lead, and brass;The mixture thus by chemic artUnited close in ev'ry part,In fillets roll'd, or cut in pieces,Appear'd like one continued species;And, by the forming engine struck,On all the same impression took.So, to confound this hated coin,All parties and religions join;Whigs, Tories, Trimmers, Hanoverians,Quakers, Conformists, Presbyterians,Scotch, Irish, English, French, unite,With equal interest, equal spiteTogether mingled in a lump,Do all in one opinion jump;And ev'ry one begins to findThe same impression on his mind.A strange event! whom gold incitesTo blood and quarrels, brass unites;So goldsmiths say, the coarsest stuffWill serve for solder well enough:So by the kettle's loud alarmsThe bees are gather'd into swarms,So by the brazen trumpet's blusterTroops of all tongues and nations muster;And so the harp of Ireland bringsWhole crowds 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 ancient poets hold,When Jove was young, was made of gold,Prometheus once this chain purloin'd,Dissolved, and into money coin'd;Then whips me on a chain of brass;(Venus was bribed to let it pass.)Now while this brazen chain prevail'd,Jove saw that all devotion fail'd;No temple to his godship raised;No sacrifice on altars blazed;In short, such dire confusion follow'd,Earth must have been in chaos swallow'd.Jove stood amazed; but looking round,With much ado the cheat he found;'Twas plain he could no longer holdThe 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,Tied with the chain himself had made,On icy Caucasus to shiver,While vultures eat his growing liver.

Ye powers of Grub-Street, make me ableDiscreetly to apply this fable;Say, who is to be understoodBy that old thief Prometheus?--Wood.For Jove, it is not hard to guess him;I mean his majesty, God bless him.This thief and blacksmith 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 passBetwixt the king and us but brass,Although 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 tied,And high in air for ever ride;Where, if we find his liver grows,For want of vultures, we have crows.

Quoth King Robin, our ribbons I see are too fewOf St. Andrew's the green, and St. George's the blue.I must find out another of colour more gay,That will teach all my subjects with pride to obey.Though the exchequer be drain'd by prodigal donors,Yet the king ne'er exhausted his fountain of honours.Men of more wit than money our pensions will fit,And this will fit men of more money than wit.Thus my subjects with pleasure will obey my commands,Though as empty as Younge, and as saucy as SandesAnd he who'll leap over a stick for the king,Is qualified best for a dog in a string.