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To Mr. JOHN MOORE,

AUTHOR of the celebrated Worm

POWDER

Ho

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

upon

the earth, Then shrinks to earth again.

That Woman is a Worm, we find

E're 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 fluiter for a day;
First from a Worm they take their risc,

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 Statesmen have the Worm, is seen,

By all their winding play;
Their Conscience is a Worm within,
That
gnaws

them night and day.

1

Ah Mcore ! thy kill were well employ'd,

And greater gain would rile,
If thou could't make the Courtier void

The Worm that never dies!

O learned Friend of Abchurch-Lane,

Who fett't our cntrails free? 10thy Art,

th; Art, tły Powder vain,
vcns Thall eat crn 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.

I.

F

Lutt'ring spread thy purple Pinions,

Gentle Cupid, o'er my Heart; 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 consuming,

All beneath yon flow'ry Rocks.

III.

Thus the Cyprian Coddess weeping,

Mourn’d Adonis, darling Youth: Ilim the Boar in Silence creeping,

Gord with unrelenting Tooth.

IV.

Contbid, tune harmonious Numbers ;

Fair Difcretion, string the Lyre; Sooth my ever-waking Slumbers :

Bright Apollo, lend thy Choir.

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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.

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