Aukward and fupple, each devoir to pay;
She flatters her good Lady twice a day;
Thought wond'rous honeft, tho' of mean degree,
And ftrangely lik'd for her Simplicity:

In a tranflated Suit, then tries the Town,
With borrow'd Pins, and Patches not her own:
But just endur'd the winter fhe began,

And in four months a batter'd Harridan.
Now nothing left, but wither'd, pale, and fhrunk,
To bawd for others, and go fhares with Punk.

20

24

TO MR. JOHN MOORE,

AUTHOR OF THE CELEBRATED WORM-POWDER.

How much, egregious Moore, are we
Deceiv'd by fhews and forms!

Whate'er we think, whate'er we fee,
All Humankind are Worms.

Man is a very Worm by birth,
Vile, reptile, weak, and vain!
A while he crawls upon the earth,
Then fhrinks to earth again.

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 Blockhead is a Slow-worm;

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,
That gnaws them night and day.

Ah Moore! thy fkill were well employ'd,
And greater gain would rife,

If thou couldst make the Courtier void
The worm that never dies!

O learned Friend of Abchurch-Lane,
Who fett'ft our entrails free!

Vain is thy Art, thy Powder vain,
Since Worms shall eat ev'n thee.

Our Fate thou only canft adjourn
Some few fhort 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.

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.

II.

Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,
Nightly nodding o'er your Flocks,

See my weary Days confuming,
All beneath yon flow'ry Rocks.

III.

Thus the Cyprian Goddess weeping,
Mourn'd Adonis, darling Youth:
Him the Boar, in Silence creeping,
Gor'd with unrelenting Tooth.

IV.

Cynthia, tune harmonious Numbers;
Fair Difcretion, ftring the Lyre;
Sooth my ever-waking Slumbers;
Bright Apollo, lend thy Choir.

V. Gloomy

V.

Gloomy Pluto, King of Terrors,
Arm'd in adamantine Chains,
Lead me to the Crystal Mirrors,
Wat'ring foft Elyfian plains.

VI.

Mournful Cyprefs, verdant Willow,
Gilding my Aurelia's Brows,
Morpheus hov'ring o'er my Pillow,
Hear me pay my dying Vows.

VII.

Melancholy smooth Meander,
Swiftly purling in a Round,

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;
Melody refigns to Fate.