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Like stunted hide-bound Trees, that just have got Sufficient Sap at once to bear and rot.

Now he begs Verse, and what he gets commends, Not of the Wits his foes, but Fools his friends.

So some coarse Country Wench, almost decay'd,
Trudges to town, and first turns Chambermaid;
Aukward and supple, each devoir to pay;
She flatters her good Lady twice a day;
Thought wond'rous honest, tho' of mean degree,
And strangely lik'd for her Simplicity:

In a translated 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 shares with Punk.



How much, egregious Moore, are we

Deceiv'd by shews 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 since, 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 rise,

And in a Worm decay.

The Flatterer an Earwig grows;

Thus Worms suit all conditions;

Misers are Muck-worms, Silk-worms Beaus, And Death-watches Physicians.

That Statesmen have the Worm, is seen,
By all their winding play;

Their Conscience is a Worm within,
That gnaws them night and day.

Ah Moore! thy skill 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 sett'st our entrails free!
Vain is thy Art, thy Powder vain,
Since Worms shall eat ev'n thee.

Our Fate thou only canst adjourn
Some few short years, no more!
Ev'n Button's Wits to Worms shall turn,
Who Maggots were before.




I. .

FLUTT'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 consuming,
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 Discretion, string the Lyre;
Soothe 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 soft Elysian plains.


Mournful Cypress, verdant Willow,
Gilding my Aurelia's brows,
Morpheus, hov'ring o'er my pillow,
Hear 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 seeks her silent mate,
See the Bird of Juno stooping;
Melody resigns to Fate.

Ir is remarkable, that this song imposed upon one of Pope's professed Commentators, the late learned Gilbert Wakefield, who took it for a serious composition: "It appears," he says, "disjointed and obscure," and asks, in reference to the fourth verse," what is the propriety of this observation? and what its application to the present subject?" On this occasion Mr. Toulmin, a friend of Mr. Wakefield's, addressed to him a copy of verses, which Mr. Wakefield,

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