Now the BILL is past, Wooden Shoes at last.  
THE best of all things is the Golden Mean,  
Virtue resides not in the two Extremes:  
E●en the Heavens declare this Maxim true,  
Which five Zones have, and yet there are but two  
Under which mankind can his Life possess,  
That this is so, Astronomers confess.  
Perhaps you'll say, the third should Centre be,  
But let two Circles here be drawn by thee.  
The third is then Extreme, you'll quickly see.  
But since 'tis my design to write upon  
The Golden Mean, why stay I here so long?  
Of the Hare and Partridge let us take a view.  
The first's too fearful, and the latter too  
Audacious, stays until the Net be drew:  
The other starts at every blast of Wind,  
As if the Enemy was even then behind.  
The Hare is thus like Jealousy and Fears,  
Which sets us oft together by the Ears.  
Thus it falls out, we frequent are undone  
By Hurly-burlies which we strive to shun,  
As in the dismal Date of Forty One.  
No less simply the Partridge is beset,  
Who takes no care, till in the fatal Net  
In which we'd almost been in Eighty Eight.  
And then, alas, too late she would avoid  
Those Snares in which already she's decoyed.  
Then wisely let us act like Reynalds, who  
Does timely fly, when that his Foes pursue:  
'Tis time to stir, when once the Wooden Shoe  
Is seen or heard, for fear of L— s too.  
November' s Plots were soon enough foreknown,  
Before the Pop was made, or Powder blown,  
Before the Duke came in, or Wax-work shown.  
And tho' the BILL is passed, they Brethren are,  
A●d till they're quite undone, need not despair:  
Perhaps some B— t may harangue the Crowd,  
To bring Relief before they're in the Shroud.  
The Wheel upon the Axis moveth still,  
And various Winds, various Sails do fill:  
There's nothing which is always at a stay,  
The Tide itself does often change its way.  
Then if kind Phoebus should resolve again  
To grant to Phaeton the Horses Rein,  
Let him be mindful of his fatal Sire,  
'Tis ill Repenting when the World's on fire.  
Ulysses' like, may Jove preserve him long  
From Polyphemus, and the Syrenes' Song:  
Doedalus like, may he keep the middle State,  
And still beware of Icarus' Fate.   

Printed for W. Jones near Charing-Cross. Price One Penny.