A moralist might here explain
The rashness of the Cretan youth;
Describe his fall into the main,
And from a fable form a truth.
His wings are his paternal rent,
He melts the wax at every flame;
His credit sunk, his money spent,
In Southern Seas he leaves his name.
Inform us, you that best can tell,
Why in that dangerous gulf profound,
Where hundreds and where thousands fell,
Fools chiefly float, the wise are drown'd?
So have I seen from Severn's brink
A flock of geese jump down together:
Swim, where the bird of Jove would sink,
And, swimming, never wet a feather.
But, I affirm, 'tis false in fact,
Directors better knew their tools;
We see the nation's credit crack'd,
Each knave has made a thousand fools.
One fool may from another win,
And then get off with money stor'd;
But, if a sharper once comes in,
He throws at all, and sweeps the board.
As fishes on each other prey,
The great ones swallowing up the small;
So fares it in the Southern Sea;
The whale directors eat up all.
When stock is high, they come between,
Making by second-hand their offers;
Then cunningly retire unseen,
With each a million in his coffers.
So,
