The Learn'd themfelves 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;

First from a Worm they take their rise,

And in a Worm decay.

The Flatterer an Earwig grows ;

Thus Worms fuit all conditions;

Mifers are Muck-worms, Silk-worms Beaus,

And Death-watches Physicians.

That Statefinen have the Worm, is feen

By all their winding play;

Their Confcience 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 could't 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 can'ft 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.

I.

FLUTT'RING Spread thy purple pinions,

Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart; I a flave 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.

I I I.

Thus the Cyprian Goddess weeping,
Mourn'd Adonis, darling youth :

Him the boar, in filence creeping,
Gor'd with unrelenting tooth.

I V.

Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers;
Fair Difcretion, string the lyre;

Sooth my ever-waking slumbers:

Bright Apollo, lend thy choir.

V.

Gloomy Pluto, King of terrors,
Arm'd in adamantine chains,

Lead me to the crystal mirrors,
Wat' ring foft Elyfian plains.

V I. *

Mournful Cyprefs, verdant Willow,
Gilding my Aurelia's brows,
Morp ens hov'ring o'er my pillow,
Hear me pay my dying vows.

VII.

Melancholy fmooth Maander,
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.

ON

A CERTAIN LADY AT COURT,

I

KNOW the thing that's most uncommon; (Envy be filent, and attend!)

I know a reasonable woman,

Handsome and witty, yet a frien

Not warp'd by paffion, aw'd by rumour,
Not grave thro' pride, or gay thro' folly,
An equal mixture of good humour,
And fenfible foft inelancholy.

» Has she no faults then (Envy says ) Sir? «
Yes, she has one, I must aver:

When all the world confpires to praise her.
The woman's deaf, and does not hear.

ON

HIS GROTTO AT TWICKENHAM

COMPOSED OF

Marbles, Spars, Gemms, Ores, and Minerals.

THOU Wh

HOU who shalt stop, where Thames' translucent ·

wave

Shines a broad mirror thro' the shadowy cave;

Where ling'ring drops from min'ral roofs diftil,

And pointed cryftals break the sparkling rill,
Unpolish'd gemms no ray on pride bestow,
And latent metals innocently glow:
Approach. Great Nature studiously behold!
And eye the mine without a wish for gold.
Approach: but awful! Lo! th' Ægerian grott,
Where, nobly pensive, St. John fate and thought,
Where British fighs from dying Wyndham ftole,
And the bright flame was shot thro' Marchmont's foul.
Let fuch, fuch only, tread this facred floor,

Who dare to love their country,

and be poor.

TO Mrs. M. B.

ON HER BIRTH-DA Y.

Он

H be thou bleft with all that Heav'n ean fend, Long health, long youth, long pleasure, and a friend:

Not with those toys the female world admire,
Riches that vex, and vanities that tire.

With added years if life bring nothing new,
But like a fieve let ev'ry bleffing through,
Some joy still lost, as each vain year runs o'er,
And all we gain, some fad reflection more;
Is that a Birth-day ? 'tis alas! too clear,
Tis but the fun'ral of the former year.

Let joy or cafe, let affluence or content,
And the gay conscience of a life well spent,
Calm ev'ry thought, inspirit ev'ry grace,