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To Mr. JOHN MOORE,
AUTHOR of the celebrated Worm
OW much, egregious Moore, are we
Deceiv'd by shews and forms ! Whate'er we think, whate'er we fee,
All Humankind are Worms.
Man is a very Worm by birth,
Vile, Reptile, weak, and vain! A while he crawls
the earth, Then shrinks to earth again.
That Woman is a Worm, we find
E're since our Grandame's evil;
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 fluiter for a day;
And in a Worm decay.
The Flatterer an Earwig grows;
Thus Worms fuit all conditions;
And Death-watches Physicians.
That Statesmen have the Worm, is seen,
By all their winding play;
them night and day.
Ah Mcore ! thy kill were well employ'd,
And greater gain would rile,
The Worm that never dies!
O learned Friend of Abchurch-Lane,
Who fett't our cntrails free? 10thy Art,
th; Art, tły Powder vain,
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.
Lutt'ring 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 flow'ry Rocks.
Thus the Cyprian Coddess weeping,
Mourn’d Adonis, darling Youth: Ilim the Boar in Silence creeping,
Gord with unrelenting Tooth.
Contbid, tune harmonious Numbers ;
Fair Difcretion, string the Lyre; Sooth my ever-waking Slumbers :
Bright Apollo, lend thy Choir.
VI. Mournful Cypress, verdant Willow,
Gilding my Aurelia's Brows, Morpheus hov'ring o'er my Pillow,
Here me pay my dying Vows.
VII. Melancholy smooth Meander,
Swiftly purling in a Round, On thy Margin Lovers wander,
With thy flow'ry Chaplets crown'd.
VIII. Thus when Philomela drooping,
Softly seeks her silent Mate, See the Bird of Juno stooping;
Melody resigns to Fate.