Aukward and fupple, each devoir to pay; In a tranflated Suit, then tries the Town, And in four months a batter'd Harridan. 20 24 TO MR. JOHN MOORE, AUTHOR OF THE CELEBRATED WORM-POWDER. How much, egregious Moore, are we Whate'er we think, whate'er we fee, Man is a very Worm by birth, That Woman is a Worm, we find The Learn'd themselves we Book-worms name, The Nymph whofe tail is all on flame, Is aptly term'd a Glow-worm. The Fops are painted Butterflies, That flutter for a day; Firft from a Worm they take their rise, And in a Worm decay. The 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, 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, Our Fate thou only canft adjourn SONG, BY A PERSON OF QUALITY. WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1733. I. FLUTT'RING spread thy purple Pinions, I a Slave in thy Dominions; II. Mild Arcadians, ever blooming, See my weary Days confuming, III. Thus the Cyprian Goddess weeping, IV. Cynthia, tune harmonious Numbers; V. Gloomy V. Gloomy Pluto, King of Terrors, VI. Mournful Cyprefs, verdant Willow, VII. Melancholy smooth Meander, On thy Margin Lovers wander, With thy flow'ry Chaplets crown'd. VIII. Thus when Philomela, drooping, Softly feeks her filent Mate, See the Bird of Juno stooping; |