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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.
Man is a very worm by birth,

Vile, reptile, weak, and vain!
A while he crawls upon the earth,
Then shrinks to earth again.
That woman is a worm, we find

E'er since our grandaue's evil ;
She first convers'd with her own kind,

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 fame,

Is aptly term'd a glow-worm.
The fops are painted butterflies,

That flutter for a day;
First from a worm they take their rise,

And in a worm decay.
The flatterer an earwig grows;

Thus worms suits all conditions ;
Misers are muck-worms, silk-worms beaus,

And death-watches physicians.
That statesmen have the worm, is seen

By all their winding play;
Their conscience is a worm within,

That goaws them night and day.

Ah, Moore! thy skill were well employ'd,

And greater gain would rise,
If thou couldst make, the courtier void

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 ev'n thee.
Our fate thou only canst adjourn

Some few short years, no more!
Ev's Button's wits to worms shall turn,

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.

T
KNOW the thing that's most uncommon;

(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.
• Has she no faults, then,' envy says, 'sir?'

Yes, she has one, I must aver:
When all the world conspires to praise her,

The woman's deaf, and does not hear.

ON HIS GROTTO AT TWICKENHAM,

Composed of Marblé, Spars, Gems, Ores, and

Minerals.

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.

OH,

H, be thou blest with all that Heaven can send,
Long health, long youth, long pleasure, and a

friend!
Not with those toys the female world admire,
Riches that vex, and vanities that tire.
With added years, if life bring nothing new,
But like a sieve let ev'ry blessing through,
Some joy still lost, as each vain year runs o'er,
And all we gain, some sad reflection more;

Is that a birthday? 'tis, alas ! too clear,
Tis but the funeral of the former year.

Let joy or ease, let affluence or content,
And the gay conscience of a life well spent,
Calm ev'ry thought, inspirit ev'ry grace,
Glow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face.
Let day improve on day, and year on year,
Without a pain, a trouble, or a fear;
Till death unfelt that tender frame destroy,
Io some soft dream, or ecstasy of joy.
Peaceful sleep out the sabbath of the tomb,
And wake to raptures in a life to come.

TO MR. THOMAS SOUTHERN,

On his Birthday, 1742.

R

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.

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