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Stephens prints heathen Greek, 'tis said,
Which some can't construe, some can't read.
But all that comes from Lintot's hand
Ev'n Rawlinson * might understand,
Oft in an Aldus or a Plantin,

A page is blotted, or leaf wanting:
Of Lintot's books this can't be said,
All fair, and not so much as read.
Their copy cost them not a penny
To Homer, Virgil, or to any;
They ne'er gave sixpence for two lines
To them, their heirs, or their assigns:
But Lintot is at vast expense,

And pays prodigious dear for-sense.
Their books are useful but to few,
A scholar, or a wit or two:

Lintot's for gen'ral use are fit;

For some folks read, but all folks sh-.

* Thomas Rawlinson, Esq. eldest son of the lord-mayor.CURLL.

TO MR JOHN MOORE,

AUTHOR OF THE CELEBRATED WORM-POWDER.

[The following certificate in favour of Mr Moore and his vermifuge, appeared repeatedly in the papers about this time. "Whereas I Michael Parrot' have had brought away a worm of sixteen feet long, by taking the medicines of J. Moore, apothecary in Abchurch-Lane, London, witness my hand, Michael Parrot. Witness, Anthony Spyer."--Postboy, 27th to 29th April, 1710. Mr Isaac Bickerstaff, in his capacity of Censor of Great Britain, deemed it necessary to pass the following stricture on this modest attestation : "I shall therefore dismiss this subject with a public admonition to Mr Michael Parrot, that he do not presume any more to mention a certain worm he knows of, which, by the way, has grown seven fect in my memory, for if I am not much mistaken, it is the same that was but nine feet six months ago." Tatler, No. 224. In the first anonymous copies of this poem, there occurred a very indelicate verse, which was omitted by the author on better consideration, and restored by the malignant correctness of Curll, in his spu rious edition of Pope's Miscellanies.]

How much egregious MOORE, are we
Deceiv'd by shows and forms!
Whate'er we think, whate'er we see,
All human kind 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.

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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.

*Button's coffeehouse, in Covent Garden, frequented by the wits of that time.-H.

VERSES

OCCASIONED BY AN &C. AT THE END OF MR D'URFEY'S NAME, IN THE TITLE TO ONE OF HIS PLAYS.*

[Poor Tom D'Urfey, who stood the force of so much wit, was a play-wright and song-writer. He appears to have been an inoffensive, good-humoured, thoughtless character, and was endured and laughed at by Dryden, by Steele, who recommended his benefit-nights to the attention of the public, through the medium of the Tatler and Guardian, and at length by Pope, who, as appears from the next article, in a spirit betwixt contempt and charity, wrote a prologue for his last play.]

JOVE call'd before him t'other day
The vowels, U, O, I, E, A;
All dipthongs, and all consonants,
Either of England, or of France:
And all that were, or wish'd to be,
Rank'd in the name of Tom D'Urfey,
Fierce in this cause the letters spoke all.
Liquids grew rough, and mutes turn'd vocal.
Those four proud syllables alone

Were silent, which by Fate's decree
Chim'd in so smoothly, one by one,
To the sweet name of Tom D'Urfey.
N, by whom names subsist, declar'd,
To have no place in this 'twas hard:

*This accident happened by Mr D'Urfey's having made a ourish there, which the printer mistook for an &c.-H.

And Q maintain'd 'twas but his due
Still to keep company with U;
So hop'd to stand no less than he
In the great name of Tom D'Urfey.
E show'd a Comma ne'er could claim
A place in any British name;
Yet, making here a perfect botch,
Thrusts your poor novel from his notch;
Hiatus mi valdè deflendus!

From which, good Jupiter, defend us!
Sooner I'd quit my part in thee,
Than be no part in Tom D'Urfey.
P protested, puff'd and swore,

He'd not be serv'd so like a beast;
He was a piece of emperor,

And made up half a pope at least.
C vow'd, he'd frankly have releas'd
His double share in Cæsar Caius
For only one in Tom Durfeius.
I, consonant and vowel too,
To Jupiter did humbly sue,

That of his grace he would proclaim
Durfeius his true Latin name:

For though, without them both, 'twas clear
Himself could ne'er be Jupiter;

Yet they'd resign that post so high,
To be the genitive, Durfei,

B and L swore b- and w-s!
X and Z cried, p-x and z-s!
G swore, by G-d, it ne'er should be;
And W would not lose, not he,
An English letter's property
In the great name of Tom D'Urfey.
In short, the rest were all in fray,
From Christ cross to et cætera.

They, tho' but standers by, too mutter'd;

Diphthongs and tripthongs swore and flutter'd:

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