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AUTHOR of the celebrated WORMPOWDER.

OW much, egregious Moore, are we
Deceiv'd by fhews 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 fince 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 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, 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,
That gnaws them night and day.

Ah Mccre! thy fkill were well employ'd,
And greater gain would rife,

If thou could't make the Courtier void
The Worm that never dies!

O learned Friend of Abchurch-Lane,
Who fett'it our entrails free?

Viathy Art, thy Powder vain,
'n Vorms shall eat ev'n thee.

Our Fate thou only can'ft adjourn
Some few short years, no more!

Ev'n Button's Wits to Worms fhall turn,
Who Maggots were before.

SONG, by a Person of Quality.

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Written in the Year 1733.


Lutt'ring fpread 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


See my weary Days confuming,
All beneath yon flow'ry Rocks.


Thus the Cyprian Goddefs weeping,
Mourn'd Adonis, darling Youth:
Him the Boar in Silence creeping,
Gor'd with unrelenting Tooth.


Cynthia, tune harmonious Numbers;
Fair Difcretion, string the Lyre;
Sooth my ever-waking Slumbers:
Bright Apollo, lend thy Choir.


Gloomy Pluto, King of Terrors,
Arm'd in adamantine Chains,

Lead me to the Crystal Mirrors,
Wat'ring foft Elyfian Plains,


Mournful Cypress, verdant Willow,

Gilding my Aurelia's Brows,

Morpheus hov'ring o'er my


Here me pay my dying Vows.


Melancholy smooth Meander,

Swiftly purling in a Round,

On thy Margin Lovers wander,

With thy flow'ry Chaplets crown'd.


Thus when Philomela drooping,

Softly feeks her filent Mate,

See the Bird of Juno stooping;
Melody refigns to Fate.

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