THOSE dreams, that on the silent night intrude,
And with false flitting shades our minds delude
Jove never sends us downward from the skies;
Nor can they from infernal mansions rise;
But are all mere productions of the brain,
And fools consult interpreters in vain. 
For when in bed we rest our weary limbs,
The mind unburdend sports in various whims;
The busy head with mimic art runs oer
The scenes and actions of the day before. 
The drowsy tyrant, by his minions led,
To regal rage devotes some patriots head.
With equal terrors, not with equal guilt,
The murderer dreams of all the blood he spilt.
The soldier smiling hears the widows cries,
And stabs the son before the mothers eyes.
With like remorse his brother of the trade,
The butcher, fells the lamb beneath his blade.
The statesman rakes the town to find a plot,
And dreams of forfeitures by treason got.
Nor less Tom-t--d-man, of true statesman mould,
Collects the city filth in search of gold.
Orphans around his bed the lawyer sees,
And takes the plaintiffs and defendants fees.
His fellow pick-purse, watching for a job,
Fancies his fingers in the cullys fob.
The kind physician grants the husbands prayers,
Or gives relief to long-expecting heirs.
The sleeping hangman ties the fatal noose,
Nor unsuccessful waits for dead mens shoes.
The grave divine, with knotty points perplext,
As if he were awake, nods oer his text:
While the sly mountebank attends his trade,
Harangues the rabble, and is better paid.
The hireling senator of modern days
Bedaubs the guilty great with nauseous praise:
And Dick, the scavenger, with equal grace
Flirts from his cart the mud in Walpoles face.