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Aukward and fupple, each devoir to pay;
In a tranflated Suit, then tries the Town,
With borrow'd Pins, and Patches not her own: But just endur'd the winter she began,
And in four months a batter'd Harridan.
To bawd for others, and go fhares with Punk
To Mr. JOHN MOORE,
AUTHOR of the celebrated WORMPOWDER.
OW much, egregious Moore, are we,
Whate'er we think, whate'er we see,
All Humankind are Worms.
Man is a very Worm by birth,
That Woman is a Worm, we find
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,
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 Physicians.
That Statesmen have the Worm, is feen,
By all their winding play;
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,
Vain is thy Art, thy Powder vain,
Since Worms shall eat ev'n thee.
Our Fate thou only canft adjourn
Ev'n Button's Wits to Worms fhall turn,
SONG, by a Person of Quality.
Written in the Year 1733.
Lutt'ring spread thy purple Pinions,
I a Slave in thy Dominions;
Nature must give Way to Art.
Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,
Thus the Cyprian Goddess weeping,
Cynthia, tune harmonious Numbers;