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Aukward and fupple, each devoir to pay;
In a tranflated Suit, then tries the Town,
To Mr. JOHN MOORE,
AUTHOR of the celebrated WORMPOWDER.
WOW much, egregious Moore, are we,
Man is a very Worm by birth,
That Woman is a Worm, we find
E'er 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 whofe tail is all on flame,
Is aptly term'd a Glow-worm :
The Fops are painted Butterflies,
First from a Worm they take their rise,
The Flatterer an Earwig grows;
Thus Worms fuit all conditions; Mifers are Muck-worms, Silk-worms Beaus, And Death-watches Physicians.
That Statesmen have the Worm, is seen,
Their Confcience is a Worm within,
Ah Moore! thy fkill were well employ'd,
If thou couldst make the Courtier void
O learned Friend of Abchurch-Lane,
Since Worms fhall eat ev'n thee.
Our Fate thou only canst 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.
Written in the Year 1733
Thus the Cyprian Goddess weeping,