To swallow Will Wood, either bruised or alive,
She need be no more with the jaundice possest,
Or sick of obstructions, and pains in her chest. 
  The next is an insect we call a wood-worm,
That lies in old wood like a hare in her form;
With teeth or with claws it will bite or will scratch,
And chambermaids christen this worm a death-watch;
Because like a watch it always cries click;
Then woe be to those in the house who are sick: 
For, as sure as a gun, they will give up the ghost,
If the maggot cries click when it scratches the post;
But a kettle of scalding hot-water injected
Infallibly cures the timber affected;
The omen is broken, the danger is over;
The maggot will die, and the sick will recover. 
Such a worm was Will Wood, when he scratch’d at the door
Of a governing statesman or favourite whore;
The death of our nation he seem’d to foretell,
And the sound of his brass we took for our knell. 
But now, since the Drapier has heartily maul’d him,
I think the best thing we can do is to scald him;
For which operation there’s nothing more proper
Than the liquor he deals in, his own melted copper;
Unless, like the Dutch, you rather would boil
This coiner of raps[2] in a caldron of oil. 
Then choose which you please, and let each bring a fagot,
For our fear’s at an end with the death of the maggot.

[Footnote 1:  He was in jail for debt.]

[Footnote 2:  Counterfeit halfpence.]

ON WOOD THE IRONMONGER. 1725

Salmoneus,[1] as the Grecian tale is,
Was a mad coppersmith of Elis: 
Up at his forge by morning peep,
No creature in the lane could sleep;
Among a crew of roystering fellows
Would sit whole evenings at the alehouse;
His wife and children wanted bread,
While he went always drunk to bed. 
This vapouring scab must needs devise
To ape the thunder of the skies: 
With brass two fiery steeds he shod,
To make a clattering as they trod,
Of polish’d brass his flaming car
Like lightning dazzled from afar;
And up he mounts into the box,
And he must thunder, with a pox. 
Then furious he begins his march,
Drives rattling o’er a brazen arch;
With squibs and crackers arm’d to throw
Among the trembling crowd below. 
All ran to prayers, both priests and laity,
To pacify this angry deity;
When Jove, in pity to the town,
With real thunder knock’d him down. 
Then what a huge delight were all in,
To see the wicked varlet sprawling;
They search’d his pockets on the place,
And found his copper all was base;
They laugh’d at such an Irish blunder,
To take the noise of brass for thunder. 
  The moral of this tale is proper,
Applied to Wood’s adulterate copper: 
Which, as he scatter’d, we, like dolts,
Mistook at first for thunderbolts,
Before the Drapier shot a letter,
(Nor Jove himself could do it better)
Which lighting on the impostor’s crown,
Like real thunder knock’d him down.