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* Medwin says that Edipus stands for George IV., lona Taurina for Queen Caroline; Laoctonos for Wellington; Pura ganax for Castlereagh; and Dakry for Lord Eldon, "from his lachrymose propensities." — Life of Shelley, ii. 29.
SCENE I.-A magnificent Temple, built of thigh-bones ana
death's-heads, and tiled with scalps. Over the Altar the statue of Famine, veiled; a number of bours, sows, and sucking-pigs, crowned with thistle, shamrock, and ouk, sitting on the steps, and clinging round the Altar of the Temple.
Enter SwellFoot, in his royal robes, without perceiving the
Thou supreme goddess ! by whose power divine These graceful limbs are clothed in proud array
[He contemplates himself with satisfuction, Of gold and purple, and this kingly paunch Swells like a sail before a favouring breeze, And these most sacred nether promontories Lie satisfied with layers of fat ; and these Baotian cheeks, like Egypt's pyramid, (Nor with less toil were their foundations laid, *)
See Universal History for an account of the number of people who died, and the immense consumption of garlic by the wretched Egyptians, who made a sepulchre for the name es well as the bodies of their tyrants.
Sustain the cone of my untroubled brain,
Eigh! eigh! eigh! eigh!
Ha! what are ye, Who, crowned with leaves devoted to the Furics, Cling round this sacred shrine ?
Aigh ! aigh ! aigh !
What! ye that are The very beasts that, offered at her altar With blood and groans, salt-cake, and fat, and
inwards, Ever propitiate her reluctant will When taxes are withheld ?
Ugh! ugh! ugh!
What ! ye who grub With filthy snouts my red potatoes up In Allan's rushy bog? who eat the oats Up, from my cavalry in the Hebrides ? Who swill the hog-wash soup my cooks digest From bones, and rags, and scraps of shoe-leather Which should be given to cleaner pigs than you ?
SE14 ICHORUS I.
The same, alas! the same;
Of pig remains to me.
If 'twere your kingly will
What should we yield to thee?
Why skin and bones, and some few hairs for mortar.
CHORUS OF SWINE.
I have heard your Laureate sing,
But now our sties are fallen in, we catch
The inurrain and the mange, the scab and itch; Sometimes your royal dogs tear down our thatch,
And then we seek the shelter of a ditch; Hog-wash or grains, or ruta-baga, none Has yet been ours since your reign begun.
My pigs, 'tis in vain to tug!
I could almost eat my litter!
I suck, but no milk will cɔme from the dug.
Our skin and our bones would be bitter.
We fight for this rag of greasy rug,
Happier swine were they than we,