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To Mr. JOHN MOORE, AUTHOR of the celebrated WoRM
L O W much, egregious Moore, are we 1 1 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 Ihrinks to earth again.
That Woman is a Worm, we find
E’re since our Grandame's evil;
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 fluiter for a day;
And in a Worm decay.
The Flatterer an Earwig grows;
Thus Worms fuit 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;
That gnaws them night and day.
Ah Mcore ! thy kill were well employ'd,
And greater gain would rife,
The Worm that never dies!
O learned Friend of Abchurch-Lane,
Who fett'it our entrails free? Vity Art, tły Powder vain,
ir cins thall eat cv'n thee.
Our Fate thou only can'st adjourn
Some few short years, no more! Ev’n Button's Wits to Worms shall turn,
Who Maggots were before.
SONG, by a Person of Quality.
Written in the Year 1733.
Nightly nodding o'er your Flocks,
All beneath yon flow'ry Rocks.
Mourn'd Alonis, darling Youth:
Fair Disiretion, string the Lyre;
Bri ht ripollo, lend thy Choir.
Gloomy Pluto, King of Terrors,
Arm'd in adamantine Chains, Lead me to the Crystal Mirrors,
Wat’ring soft Elysian Plains,
Gilding my Aurelia's Brows,
Here me pay my dying Vows.
VII. Melancholy smooth Mæander,
Swiftly purling in a Round, On thy Margin Lovers wander, With thy flow'ry Chaplets crown'd.
VIII. Thus when Philomela drooping,
Softly seeks her filent Mate, See the Bird of Juno stooping; Melody resigns to Fate.