200 THE POEMS OF ANNE �Unless you soon to Jupiter repair, �And let him know, the Case demands his Care. �Oh! may the Trunk but stand, 'till you come back! �But hark! already sure, I hear it crack. �Away, away The Eagle, all agast, 60 �Soars to the Sky, nor falters in her haste: �Whilst crafty Puss, now o'er the Eyry reigns, �Replenishing her Maw with treach'rous Gains. �The Sow she plunders next, and lives alone ; �The Pigs, the Eaglets, and the House her own. �Cursed Sycophants ! How wretched is the Fate Of those, who know you not, till 'tis too late! �THE MAN BITTEN BY FLEAS �A Peevish Fellow laid his Head �On Pillows stuff 'd with Down ; But was no sooner warm in bed, �With hopes to rest his Crown, �But Animals of slender size, �That feast on humane Gore, From secret Ambushes arise, �Nor suffer him to snore ; �Who starts, and scrubs, and frets, and swears, �'Till, finding all in vain, He for Relief employs his Pray'rs �In this old Heathen strain. �Great Jupiter! thy Thunder send �From out the pitchy Clouds, And give these Foes a dreadful End, �That lurk in Midnight Shrouds: ��� �
