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There he stopp'd short, nor since has writ a tittle,
So some coarse Country Wench, almost decay'd, 15
To Mr. JOHN MOORE, Author of the celebrated Worm-POWDER.
OW much, egregious Moore, are we
Deceiv’d by Mews and forms! Whate'er we think, whate'er we see,
All Humankind are Worms.
Man is a very Worm by birth,
Vile, reptile, weak, and vain !
Then shrinks to earth again.
E’er since our Grandame's evil;
That ancient Worm, the Devil.
The Blockhead is a Slow-worm ;
Is aptly term'd a Glow-worm :
That Aytter for a day;
And in a Worm decay.
Thus Worms fuit all conditions ;
And Death-watches Physicians.
That That Statesmen have the Worm, is seen
By all their winding play ;
That gnaws them night and day.
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 ev'n thee.
Our Fate thou only can'st adjourn
Some few short years, no more!
Who Maggots were before.
SONG, by a Person of Quality.
Written in the Year 1733.
Gentle Cupid, o'er my Heart;
Nightly nodding o'er your Flocks,
Mourn'd Adonis, darling Youih:
IV. Cynthia, tune harmonious Numbers;
Fair Discretion, string the Lyre; Sooth my ever-waking Slumbers : Bright Apollo, lend thy Choir.
V. Gloomy Pluto, King of Terrors,
Arm'd in adamantine Chains, Lead me to the Crystal Mirrors,
Watering foft Elyfian Plains.
VI. Mournful Cypress, verdant Willow,
Gilding my Aurelia's Brows, Morpheus hovering o'er my Pillow, Hear me pay my dying vows.
Swiftly purling in a Round,
Softly seeks her filent Mate, See the Bird of Juno stooping;
Melody resigns to Fate.
ON A CERTAIN LADY AT COURT.
I Know the thing
that's mot uncommon ;
Handsome and witty, yet a Friend.
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.