To Mr. JOHN MOORE, AUTHOR of the celebrated WORMPOWDER. H° OW much, egregious Moore, are we Whate'er we think, whate'er we fee, Man is a very Worm by birth, That Woman is a Worm, we find E're fince our Grandame's evil; She first convers'd with her own kind, 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, First from a Worm they take their rife, The Flatterer an Earwig grows; Thus Worms fuit all conditions; Mifers are Muck-worms, Silk-worms Beaus, And Death-watches Phyficians. That Statesmen have the Worm, is feen, By all their winding play; Their Confcience is a Worm within, Ah Mccre! thy fkill were well employ'd, If thou could't make the Courtier void O learned Friend of Abchurch-Lane, Viathy Art, thy Powder vain, Our Fate thou only can'ft adjourn Ev'n Button's Wits to Worms fhall turn, SONG, by a Person of Quality. Written in the Year 1733. I. Lutt'ring fpread thy purple Pinions, I a Slave in thy Dominions; Nature must give Way to Art. II. Mild Arcadians, ever blooming, Nightly nodding o'er your Flocks, See my weary Days confuming, III. Thus the Cyprian Goddefs weeping, IV. Cynthia, tune harmonious Numbers; V. Gloomy Pluto, King of Terrors, Lead me to the Crystal Mirrors, 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 feeks her filent Mate, See the Bird of Juno stooping; |