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Aukward and fupple, each devoir to pay;
She flatters her good Lady twice a day;
Thought wond'rous honeft, tho' of mean degree,
And strangely lik'd for her Simplicity :

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.
Now nothing left, but wither'd, pale, and shrunk,

To bawd for others, and go fhares with Punk


AUTHOR of the celebrated WORMPOWDER.


OW much, egregious Moore, are we,
Deceiv'd by fhews and forms!

Whate'er we think, whate'er we see,

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'er 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 Physicians.

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 Moore! thy fkill were well employ'd,
And greater gain would rise,

If thou couldst make the Courtier void
The Worm that never dies!

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

Vain is thy Art, thy Powder vain,

Since Worms shall eat ev'n thee.

Our Fate thou only canft 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.


Lutt'ring spread 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 Flocks,
See my weary Days confuming,
All beneath yon flow'ry Rocks.


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


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

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