9 14 Such, fuch emotions fhould in Britons rife, If there's a Senior, who contemns this age; And be the Critic's, Briton's, Old Man's Friend, NOTES. VER. 12. Their Quibbles routed and defy'd their Puns See Dunciad, Note on v. 63. B. I. VER. 13. Adefp'rate Bulwark, etc.] See Dunc. Note on v. 268. B. II. VER. 16. And book the Stage with Thunders all his own!] See Dunc. Note on v. 226. B. II. VER. 17. Stood up to dasp, etc.] See Dunc. Note on V. 173. B. III. VER. 18. Maul the French Tyrant-] See Dunc. Note on v. 413. B. II. Ibid. or pull down the POPE !] See Dunc. Note on v. 63. B. I. VER. 21. If there's a critic of diftinguish'd rage.] See Dunc. Notes on v. 106. B. I. MACER MACE R: A CHARACTER. WHE HEN fimple Macer, now of high renown, Firft fought a Poet's Fortune in the Town, 'Twas all th' Ambition his high foul could feel, To wear red ftockings, and to dine with Steel. Some Ends of verfe his Betters might afford, And gave the harmless fellow a good word. Set up with these, he ventur'd on the Town, And with a borrow'd Play, out-did poor Crown. There he stop'd fhort, nor fince has writ a tittle, But has the wit to make the most of little: Like ftunted hide-bound Trees, that just have got Sufficient fap at once to bear and rot. 10 Now he begs Verfe, and what he gets commends, Not of the Wits his foes, but Fools his friends. 14 So fome coarse Country Wench, almost decay'd, In a tranflated Suit, then tries the Town, And in four months a batter'd Harridan. 20 24 Το (58) To Mr. JOHN MOORE, AUTHOR of the celebrated W OR MPOWDER. How 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 The Learn'd themselves we Book-worms name, 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 The Flatterer an Earwig grows ; Mifers are Muck-worms, Silk-worms Beaus, And Death-watches Phyficians. That Statesmen have the Worm, is feen, By all their winding-play; Ah Moore! thy skill were well employ'd, If thou could'ft make the Courtier void O learned Friend of Abchurch-Lane, Vain is thy Art, thy Powder vain, Our Fate thou only can'ft adjourn SONG SONG, by a Perfon of Quality. F Written in the Year 1733. I. Lutt'ring spread thy purple Pinions, I a Slave in thy Dominions; Nature must give Way to Art. II. Flocks, Mild Arcadians, ever blooming, III. Thus the Cyprian Goddess weeping, IV. Cynthia, tune harmonious Numbers; V. Gloomy |