Thus Partridge, by his wit and parts,
At once did practise both these arts:
And as the boding owl (or rather
The bat, because her wings are leather)
Steals from her private cell by night,
And flies about the candle-light;
So learned Partridge could as well
Creep in the dark from leathern cell,
And in his fancy fly as far,
To peep upon a twinkling ftar.
Befides, he could confound the spheres And set the planets by the ears;
To fhew his skill, he Mars could join
To Venus in afpect malign:
Then call in Mercury for aid,
And cure the wounds that Venus made.
Great scholars have in Lucian read,
When Philip King of Greece was dead,
His foul and Spirit did divide,
And each part took a diff'rent fide:
One rofe aftar; the other fell
Beneath, and mended fhoes in hell.
Thus Partridge still shines in each art,
The cobling and ftar-gazing part,
And is install'd as good a star
any of the Cæfars are. Triumphant ftar! fome pity show
On coblers militant below,
Whom roguish boys in ftormy nights
Torment by piffing out their lights,.
Or through a chink convey their smoke
Inclos'd artificers to choke.
Thou, high-exalted in thy sphere,
May'ft follow ftill thy calling there,
To thee the Bull will lend his hide,
By Phoebus newly tann'd and dry'd:
For thee they Argo's hulk will tax,
And scrape her pitchy fides for wax :
Then Ariadne kindly lends
Her braided hair to make thee ends :
The point of Sagittarius' dart
Turns to an awl by heav'nly art;
And Vulcan, wheedled by his wife,
Will forge for thee a poring-knife.
For want of room by Virgo's fide,
She'll ftrain a point, and fit † aftride,
To take thee kindly in between ;
And then the figns will be thirteen.
HERE, five foot deep, lies on his back
A cobler, farmonger, and quack;
Who to the ftars in pure good quill
Does to his best look upward still.
Weep, all you customers that use
His pills, his almanacks, or fhoes:
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 fo much virtue in't,
That I durft pawn my ears 'twill tell
Whate'er concerns you full as well,
In phyfic, ftolen goods, or love,
As he himself could, when above.
* VERSES to be prefixed before BERNARD LINTOT'S New Mifcellany .
OME Colinæus * praise, fome Bleau *,
Others account them but fo fo;
Some Plantin* to the reft prefer,
And fome efteem old Elzevir *;
Others with Aldus * would befot 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 ftands in capital:
Author and he with equal grace
Appear, and ftare you in the face.
Stephens prints Heathen Greek, 'tis faid,
Which fome can't conftrue, 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 faid,
All fair, and not so much as read.
The Oxford and Cambridge Mifcellany, 8vo.
* Printers famous for having published fine editions of the
Bible, and of the Greek and Roman claffics.
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 assigns:
But Lintot is at vaft expence,
And pays prodigious dear for--sense.
Their books are useful but to few,
A fcholar, or a wit or two:
Lintot's for genʼral use are fit;
For fome folks read, but all folks sh-.
AUTHOR of the celebrated WORM-POWDER †.
[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.
That woman is a worm, we find,
E'er fince our grandame's evil;
She first convers'd with her own kind,
That ancient worm, the devil.
This poem was wrote by Mr. Pope.
The learn'd themfelves we book-worms name; The blockhead is a flow-worm;
The nymph, whose 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;
Mifers are muck-worms, filk-worms beaus,
And death-watches phyficians.
That ftatefmen have the worm, is seen
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 rise,
If thou couldft make the courtier void
The worm that never dies!
O! learned friend of Abchurch-lane,
Who fett'ft our entrails free!
Vain is thy art, thy powder vain,
Since worms fhall eat ev'n thee..
Our fate thou only canft adjourn
Some few short years, no more!
VOL. VIII.
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