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TO MR. JOHN MOORE,
Author of the celebrated Worm-Powder.
How much; egregious Moore,
are we Deceiv'd by shows and forms! Whate'er we think, whate'er we see,
AH human kind are worms.
Vile, reptile, weak, and vain!
E'er since our grandaue's evil ;
That ancient worm, the devil.
The blockhead is a slow-worm;
Is aptly term'd a glow-worm.
That flutter for a day;
And in a worm decay.
Thus worms suits all conditions ;
And death-watches physicians.
By all their winding play;
That goaws them night and day.
Ah, Moore! thy skill were well employ'd,
And greater gain would rise,
The worm that never dies.
Who sett'st our entrails free;
Since worms shall eat ev'n thee.
Some few short years, no more!
Who maggots were before.
SONG, BY A PERSON OF QUALITY;
Written in the Year 1733.
FLUTTRING spread thy purple pinions,
Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart; I a slave in thy dominions;
Nature must give way to art. Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,
Nightly nodding o'er your flocks, See my weary days cousuming,
All beneath yon flow'ry rocks. Thus the Cypriau goddess weeping,
Mourn’d Adonis, darling youth ; Him the boar, in silence creeping,
Gor'd with unrelenting tooth. Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers;
Fair discretion, string the lyre; Sooth my ever-waking slumbers : Bright Apollo, lend thy choir.
Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors,
Arm'd in adamantine chains, Lead me to the crystal mirrors,
Wat’ring soft Elysian plains. Mournful cypress, verdant willow,
Gilding my Aurelia's brows, Morpheus hov'ring o'er my pillow,
Hear me pay my dying vows. Melancholy smooth Mæander,
Swiftly purling in a round, On thy margin lovers wander,
With thy flow'ry chaplets crown'd. Thus when Philomela drooping,
Softly seeks her silent mate, See the bird of Juno stooping ;
Melody resigns to fate.
ON A CERTAIN LADY AT COURT.
(Envy, be silent and attend !) I know a reasonable woman,
Handsome and witty, yet a friend. Not warp'd by passion, aw'd by rumour,
Not grave through pride, nor gay through folly; An equal mixture of good-humour,
And sensible soft melancholy.
Yes, she has one, I must aver:
The woman's deaf, and does not hear.
ON HIS GROTTO AT TWICKENHAM,
Composed of Marblé, Spars, Gems, Ores, and
THOU who shalt stop, where Thames' translucent
wave Shines a broad mirror through the shadowy cave; Where ling’ring drops from min'ral roofs distil, And pointed crystals break the sparkling rill, Unpolish'd gerns no ray on pride bestow, And latent metals innocently glow: Approach. Great Nature studiously behold! And eye the mine, without a wish for gold. Approach: but awful! lo! the Ægerian grot, Where, nobly pensive, St. John sat and thought; Where British sighs from dying Wyndham stole, And the bright flame was shot through Marchmont's
soul. Let such, such only, tread this sacred floor, Who dare to love their country, and be poor.
TO MRS M. B. ON HER BIRTHDAY.
H, be thou blest with all that Heaven can send,
Is that a birthday? 'tis, alas ! too clear,
Let joy or ease, let affluence or content,
TO MR. THOMAS SOUTHERN,
On his Birthday, 1742.
ESIGN'D to live, prepar'd to die,
With not one sin, but poetry, This day Tom's fair account has run (Without a blot) to eighty-one. Kind Boyle, before his poet, lag3 A table, with a cloth of bays; And Ireland, mother of sweet singers, Presents her harp still to his fingers. The feast, his tow'ring genius marks In yonder wild-goose and the larks ! The mushrooms show his wit was sudden ! And for his judgement, lo a pudden ! Roast beef, though old, proclaims-him slout, And grace, although a bard, devout. May Tom, whom heaven sent dowu to raise The price of prologues and of plays, Be ev'ry birthday more a winner, Digest bis thirty-thousandth dinner; Walk to his grave without reproach, And scorn a rascal and a coach.