Others with Aldus

would besot us;

I, for my part, admire Lintottus.-
His character's beyond compare,
Like his own person, large and fair.
They print their names in letters small,
But LINTOT stands in capital:
Author and he with equal grace
Appear, and stare you in the face.

Stephens prints heathen Greek, 'tis said,
Which some can't construe, some can't read:
But all that comes from Lintot's hand
Ev'n Rawlinson might understand.
Oft in an Aldus or a Plantin,

A page is blotted, or leaf wanting:
Of Lintot's books this can't be said,
All fair, and not so much as read.
Their copy cost 'em not a penny
To Homer, Virgil, or to any;
They ne'er gave sixpence for two lines.
To them, their heirs, or their assigns:
But Lintot is at vast expense,
And pays prodigious dear for—sense.
Their books are useful but to few,
A scholar, or a wit or two:

Lintot's for gen'ral use are fit;

For some folks read, but all folks sh-.

A famous printer.

ΤΟ

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,

All 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 Grandame's evil;
She first convers'd with her own kind,
That ancient worm, the Devil.

The learn'd themselves we bookworms name,
The blockhead is a slowworm;
The nymph, whose tail is all on flame,
Is aptly term'd a glowworm.

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 suit all conditions;

Misers are muckworms, silkworms beaus,

And deathwatches physicians.

VOL. XVII.

DD

That

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 g eater 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'n Button's wits to worms shall turn,
Who maggots were before.

VERSES

OCCASIONED BY AN &c. AT THE END OF MR. D'URFY'S NAME, IN THE TITLE TO ONE OF HIS PLAYS t.

JOVE call'd before him t' other day

The vowels, U, O, I, E, A;
All diphthongs, and all consonants,
Either of England, or of France;
And all that were, or wish'd to be,
Rank'd in the name of Tom D'Urfy.

Button's coffeehouse, in Covent garden, frequented by the wits of that time.

This accident happened by Mr. D'Urfy's having made a flourish there, which the printer mistock for an &c.

Fierce in this cause the letters spoke all,

Liquids grew rough, and mutes turn'd vocal.
Those four proud syllables alone

Were silent, which by Fate's decree
Chim'd in so smoothly, one by one,

To the sweet name of Tom D'Urfy.
N, by whom names subsist, declar'd,
To have no place in this 'twas hard :
And Q maintain'd 'twas but his due
Still to keep company with U;
So hop'd to stand no less than he
In the great name of Tom D'Urfy.
E show'd a Comma ne'er could claim.
A place in any British name;

Yet, making here a perfect botch,

Thrusts your poor vowel from his notch;
Hiatus mi valdè deflendus!

From which, good Jupiter, defend us!
Sooner I'd quit my part in thee,
Than be no part in Tom D'Urfy.
P protested, puff'd, and swore,
He'd not be serv'd so like a beast;
He was a piece of emperor,

And made up half a pope at least.
C vow'd, he'd frankly have releas'd
Hs double share in Cæsar Caius
For only one in Tom Durfeius.
I, consonant and vowel too,
To Jupiter did humbly sue,

That of his grace he would proclaim
Durfeius his true Latin name :

For though, without them both, 'twas clear

Himself could ne'er be Jupiter;

Yet they'd resign that post so high,
To be the genitive, Durfei.

B and L swore b- and w-s!
X and Z cried, p-x and z―s !
G swore, by G-d, it ne'er should be;
And W would not lose, not he,
An English letter's property

In the great name of Tom D'Urfy.

In short, the rest were all in fray,
From christ-cross to et cætera.

They, tho' but standers by, too mutter'd;
Diphthongs and triphthongs swore and flutter'd:
That none had so much right to be
Part of the name of stuttering T-

T--Tom--a--as-De---D'Ur--fy-fy.

Then Jove thus spake: "With care and pain "We form'd this name, renown'd in rhyme : "Not thine, immortal Neufgermain * !

"Cost studious cabalists more time. "Yet now, as then, you all declare, "Far hence to Egypt you'll repair, "And turn strange hi'roglyphicks there, "Rather than letters longer be,

"Unless i' th' name of Tom D'Urfy.

« Were you all pleas'd, yet what, I pray, "To foreign letters could I say? "What if the Hebrew next should aim "To turn quite backward D'Urfy's name? "Should the Greek quarrel too, by Styx, I "Could never bring in Psi and Xi;

}

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A poet, who used to make verses ending with the last syllables of the names of those persons he praised: which Voiture turned against him in a poem of the same kind.

"Omicron