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The

EPIT A PH.

HERE, five foot deep, lies on his back

A cobler, farmonger, and quack;

Who to the ftars in pure good-will

Does to his best look upward ftill.
Weep, all you cuftomers that ufe

His pills, his almanacks, or shoes :
And you that did your fortunes feek,
Step to his
grave but once a-week:
This earth, which bears his body's print,
You'll find has so much virtue in't,
That I durft pawn my ears 'twill tell
Whate'er concerns you full as well,
In phyfic, fiolen goods, or love,

As he himself could, when above.

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VERSES to be prefixed before BERNARD LINTOT'S New Mifcellany +.

SOME

OME Colinæus † praife, fome Bleau †,
Others account them but fo fo;

Some Plantin 1 to the reft prefer,

And some esteem old Elzever ‡ ;
Others with Aldus ‡ would befot us;

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

The Oxford and Cambridge mifcellany, 8vo.

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Printers famous for having publifhed fine editions of the Bible, and of the Greek and Roman claffics.

Stephens prints Heathen Greek, 'tis faid,

Which fome can't conftrue, fome can't read :

But all that comes from Lintot's hand
Even Rawlinson might underftand.
Oft in an Aldus, or a Plantin,
A page is blotted, or leaf wanting:
Of Lintot's books this can't be faid,
All fair, and not so much as read.
Their copy coft 'em not a penny
To Homer, Virgil, or to any;
They ne'er gave fixpence for two lines
To them, their heirs, or their affigns:
But Lintot is at vaft expence,
And pays prodigious dear forfense.
Their books are useful but to few,

A fcholar, or a wit or two :

Lintot's for gen'ral use are fit ;

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For fome folks read, but all folks fh

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.1

To MR. JOHN MOORE,

Author of the celebrated WORM-POWDERT.

H

OW much, egregious Moore, are we
Deceiv'd by fhews and forms!

Whate'er we think, whate'er we fee,

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.

This poem was wrote by Mr Popc.

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That woman is a worm, we find,

E'er fince our grandame's evil;

She first convers'd with her own kind,
That antient worm, the devil.

The learn'd themfelves we book-worms name;
The blockhead is a flow-worm;

The nymph, whofe tail is all on flame,

Is aptly term'd a glow-worm.

The fops are painted butterflies,
That flutter for a day;

First from a worm they take their rife,
And in a worm decay.

The flatterer an earwig grows ;.

Thus worms fuit all conditions ;

T

Mifers are muck-worms, filk-worms beaux,

And death watches phyficians.

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That statesmen have the worm, is seen

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By all their winding play;

Their confcience is a worm within,

That gnaws them night and day.

Ah, Moore! thy fkill were well employ'd,
And greater gain would rife,

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If thou couldft make the courtier void

The worm that never dies!

O learned friend of Abchurch-lane,
Who fett'ft our intrails free!

Vain is thy art, thy powder vain,

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Since worms fhall eat ev'n thee.

Our fate thou only canft adjourn

Some few short years, no more!

Ev'n Button's wits * to worms shall turn,

Who maggots were before.

40

VERSES Occafioned by an &c. at the end of Mr D'URFY's name in the title to one of his plays t.

JOVE

E call'd before him t'other day
The vowels, U, O, I, E, A;
All diphthongs, and all confonants,
Either of England, or of France;
And all that were, or wifh'd to be,
Rank'd in the name of Tom D'Urfy.
Fierce is this caufe; the letters fpoke all,
Liquids grew rough, and mutes turn'd vocal.
Those four proud fyllables alone

Were filent, which by fate's decree-
Chim'd in fo fmoothly one by one,

To the sweet name of Tom D'Urfy.
N, by whom names fubfift, declar'd,
To have no place in this was hard;
And 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 fhew'd, a comma ne'er could claim
A place in any British name;

Yet, making here a perfect botch,

Thrufts your poor vowel from his notch;

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Button's coffee-houfe, in Covent-Garden, frequented by the wits of that time.

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

Hiatus mi valde 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 ferv'd fo 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
His double fhare in Cæfar Gaius.
For only one in Tom Durfeius.
I, confonant and vowel too,
To Jupiter did humbly fue,

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That of his grace he would proclaim

Durfeius his true Latin name:

For tho' without them both 'twas clear

Himself could ne'er be Jupiter;

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Yet they'd refign that poft fo high
To be the genitive, Durfei.

S ;

B and L swore b— and w-
X and Z cry'd, p-x and z―s ;
G fwore by G-d; it ne'er fhould be
And I would not lofe, not he,

An English letter's property

In the great name of Tom D'Urfy.

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In fhort, the reft were all in fray,

From Chrift-cross to et cætera.

They, tho' but standers-by, too mutter'd;

Diphthongs and tripthongs fwore and flutter'd;

That none had fo much right to be

Part of the name of ftutt'ring T

T-Tom-a-AS

·De—D'Ur-fy—fy.

Then Jove thus fpake:
We form'd this name,
VOL. VI.

With care and pain
renown'd in rhyme :

Ι

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