Wrote in 1720

Full fifty Times have roul'd their Changes on, And all the Year's Transactions now are done; Full fifty Times I've trod, with eager Haste, To bring you weekly News of all Things past. Some grateful Thing is due for such a Task, Tho' Modesty itself forbids to ask; A Silver Thought, express'd in ill-shap'd Ore, Is all I wish; nor would I ask for more. To grace our Work, swift Merc'ry stands in View; I've been a Living Merc'ry still to you. Tho' Ships, and tiresom Posts Advices bring, Till we impress it, 'tis no current Thing. C—n may write, but B—d's Art alone Distributes News to all th' expecting Town. How far remov'd is this our Western Shore, From those dear Lands our Fathers knew before; Yet our bold Ships the raging Ocean dare, And bring us constant News of Actions there. Quick to your Hands the fresh Advices come, From England, Sweden, France, and ancient Rome. What Spain intends against the barbarous Moors, Or Russian Armies on the Swedish Shores. What awful Hand pestiferous Judgments bears, And lays the sad Marseilles in Death and Tears. From GEORGE alone what Peace and Plenty spring, The greatest Statesman, and the greatest King. Long may he live, to us a Blessing giv'n, Till he shall change his Crown for that of Heav'n. The happy Day, Dear Sir, appears ag'in, When human Nature lodg'd a God within. The Angel now was heard amongst the Swains; A God resounds from all the distant Plains: O'erjoy'd they haste, and left their fleecy Care, Found the blest Child, and knew the God was there. Yet whilst, with gen'rous Breath, you hail the Day, And, like the Shepherds, sacred Homage pay, Let gen'rous Thoughts some kindly Grace infuse, To him that brings, with careful Speed, your NEWS.