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Aukward and fupple, each devoir to pay;
And in four months a batter'd Harridan.
TO MR. JOHN MOORE,
AUTHOR OF THE CELEBRATED WORM-POWDER.
Man is a very Worm by birth,
Vile, reptile, weak, and vain!
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 Nymph whofe tail is all on flame,
The Fops are painted Butterflies,
First from a Worm they take their rife,
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,
Our Fate thou only canft adjourn
Who Maggots were before.
BY A PERSON OF QUALITY.
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1733.
LUTT'RING fpread thy purple Pinions,
Thus the Cyprian Goddefs weeping,
Mourn'd Adonis, darling Youth: Him the Boar, in Silence creeping, Gor'd with unrelenting Tooth.
Cynthia, tune harmonious Numbers;
Gloomy Pluto, King of Terrors,
Mournful Cyprefs, verdant Willow,
VII. Melancholy smooth Maander, Swiftly purling in a Round, On thy Margin Lovers wander, With thy flow'ry Chaplets crown'd.
Thus when Philomela, drooping,