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There he stopp'd short, nor since has writ a tittle,
But has the Wit to make the most of little :
Like stunted hide-bound Trees, that just have got
Sufficient fap at once to bear and rot.
Now he begs Verse, and what he gets commends,
Not of the Wits his foes, but Fools his friends.

So some coarse Country Wench, almost decay'd, 15
Trudges to town, and first turns Chambermaid ;
Awkward and supple, each devoir to pay ;
She flatters her good Lady twice a-day;
Thought wondrous honest, though of mean degree,
And strangely lik’d for her Simplicity :
In a translated Suit, then tries the Town,
With borrow'd Pins, and Patches not her own :
But just endur'd the Winter she began,
And in four Months a batter'd Harridan.
Now nothing left, but wither’d, pale, and shrunk, 25
To bawd for others, and go shares with Punk.

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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 !
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 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 Aytter for a day;
First from a Worm they take their rise,

And in a Worm decay.
The Flatterer an Earwig grows;

Thus Worms fuit all conditions ;
Misers are Muck-worms, Silk-worms Beaus,

And Death-watches Physicians.

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 greater gain would rise,
If thou could'st 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 can'st adjourn

Some few short years, no more!
Ev’n Button's Wits to Worms shall turn,

Who Maggots were before.


SONG, by a Person of Quality.

Written in the Year 1733.

Luttering 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 consuming,
All beneath yon flowery Rocks.

Thus the Cyprian Goddess weeping,

Mourn'd Adonis, darling Youih:
Him the Boar, in Silence creeping,
Gor'd with unrelenting Tooth.

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.

Melancholy smooth Mæander,

Swiftly purling in a Round,
On thy Margin Lovers wander,
With thy flowery Chaplets crown'd.

Thus when Philomela drooping,

Softly seeks her filent Mate, See the Bird of Juno stooping;

Melody resigns to Fate.


I Know the thing

that's mot 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.


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