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Thus vanish sceptres, coronets, and balls,
So when your slave, at some dear idle time,
TO MR. JOHN MOORE,
AUTHOR OF THE CELEBRATED WORM-POWDER.
How much, egregious Moore! are we
Deceived by shows and forms !
All humankind are worms.
Man is a very worm by birth,
Vile reptile, weak, and vain!
Then shrinks to earth again.
That woman is a worm we find,
E'er since our grandam's evil;
That ancient worm, the Devil.
The learn’d themselves we book-worms name,
The blockhead is a slow-worm; The nymph whose tail is all on flame,
Is aptly term'd a glow-worm.
The fops are painted butterflies
That Autter for a day:
And in a worm decay.
The flatterer an earwig grows;
Thus worms suit all conditions ; Misers are muck-worms; silk-worms, beaux;
And death-watches, physicians.
That statesmen have the worm,
is seen By all their winding play ; Their conscience is a worm within
That gnaws them night and day.
Ah, Moore! thy skill were well employ'd,
And greater gain would rise,
The worm that never dies !
O learned friend of Abchurch Lane,
Who sett'st our entrails free; Vain is thy art, thy powder vain,
Since worms shall eat e'en thee.
Our fate thou only canst adjourn
Some few short years, no more!
Who maggots were before.
TO MRS. M. B.
ON HER BIRTH-DAY.
Oh, be thou bless'd with all that Heaven can send,
TO MR. THOMAS SOUTHERN.
ON HIS BIRTH-DAY.
Kind Boyle, before his poet, lays
every birth-day more a winner,
TEMPLE OF FAME.
Advertisement. The bint of the following piece was taken from Chaucer's
House of Fame. The design is in a manner entirely altered, the descriptions and most of the particular thoughts my own : yet I could not suffer it to be printed without this acknowledgment. The reader who would compare this with Chaucer, may begin with his third book of Fame, there being nothing in the two first books that answers to their title.
In that soft season, when descending showers
my breast, (What time the morn mysterious visions brings, While purer slumbers spread their golden wings) A train of phantoms in wild order rose, And, join’d, this intellectual scene compose. I stood, methought, betwixt earth, seas, and
skies; The whole creation open to my eyes : In air self-balanced hung the globe below, Where mountains rise and circling oceans flow;