That woman is a worm, we find

Eer since our grandame's evil;
She first conversed 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 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 risc,

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 ouldst make the courtier void
The worm that never dies.

O learned friend of Abchurch-lane,
Whe setst our entrails free;
Vain i thy art, thy powder vain,
Since worms shall eat e'en theo

Our fe thou only canst adjourn

So e few short years, no more!

E'er Button's wits to worms shall turn,

SONG BY A PERSON OF QUALITY.
Written in the Year 1733.

FLUTTERING spread thy purple pinions,
Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart;
I a slave in thy dominions;
Nature must give way to art.
Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,
Nightly nodding o'er your flocks,
See my weary days consuming,
All beneath yon flowery rocks.
Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping,
Mourn'd Adonis, darling youth;
Him the boar, in silence creeping,
Gored with unrelenting tooth.
Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers;
Fair discretion, string the lyre;
Soothe my ever-waking slumbers:
Bright Apollo, lend thy choir.
Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors,

Arin'd in adamantine chains,
Lead me to the crystal mirrors,
Watering soft Elysian plains.
Mournful cypress, verdant willow
Gilding my Aurelia's browe,
Morpheus hovering o'er my pillow
Hear me pay my dying vows.
Melancholy smooth Mæander,
Swiftly purling.in a round,
On thy margin lovers wander,
With thy flowery chaplets crown's

Thus when Philomela drooping,
Softly seeks her silent mate,
See the bird of Juno stooping:
Melody resigns to fate.

ON A CERTAIN LADY AT COURT

Now the thing that 's most uncommon ⚫ (Envy, be silent and attend!)

know a reasonable woman,

Handsome and witty, yet a friend.

Not warp'd by passion, awed by rumour,

Not grave through pride, nor gay through folly: An equal mixture of good-humour,

And sensible soft melancholy.

'Has she no faults, then,' Envy says, sir?'
Yes, she has ore, I must aver:

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

ON HIS GROTTO AT TWICKENHAM,
Composed of Marble, Spars, Gems, Ores, and
Minerals.

THOU who shalt drop, where Thames translucent wave
Shines a broad mirror through the shadowy cave;
Where lingering drops from mineral roofs distil,
And pointed crystals break the sparkling rill,
Unpolish'd gems 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! the Ægerian grot,
Where, nobly pensive, St. John sat and thought,
Where British sighs from dying Wyndham stole
And the bright flame was shot through Marcnmont's
Let such, such only, tread this sacred floor,
Who dare to love their country, and the 00

[soul

TO MRS. M. B. ON HER BIRTII-DAY.

On, be thou bless'd with all that Heaven can send,
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 sieve let every blessing through,
Some joy still lost, as each vain year runs o'er,
And all we gain, some sad reflection more;
is that a birth day? 'tis, alas! too clear,
"Tis but the funeral of the former year.

Let joy or ease, let affluence or content,
And the gay conscience of a life well spent,
Calm every thought, inspirit every grace
Glow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face.
Let day improve on day, and year on year,
Without a pain, a trouble, or a fear;
Till death unfelt that tender frame destroy,
In some soft dream, or ecstacy of joy.
Peaceful sleep out the sabbath of the tomb,
And wake to raptures in a life to come.

TO MR. THOMAS SOUTHERN,
On his Birth-day, 1742.

RESIGN'D to live, prepared to die,
With not one sin but poetry,

This day Tom's fair accourt has run
(Without a blot) to eighty-one.
Kind Boyle, before his poet, lays
A table, with a cloth of bays;
And Ireland, mother of sweet singers
Presents her harp still to his fingers.
The feast, his towering genius marks
In yonder wild-goose and the larks!
The mushrooms show his wit was sudden!
And for his judgment, lo! a pudden'

Roast beef, though old, proclaims him stout,
And grace, although a bard, devout.
May Tom, whom heaven sent down to raise
'The price of prologues and of plays,
Be every birth-day more a winner,
Digest his thirty thousandth dinner;
Walk to his grave without reproach,
And scorn a rascal and a coach.

TO LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGUE⚫

IN beauty or wit,

No mortal as yet,
To question your empire has dared;

But men of discerning

Have thought that in learning,

To yield to a lady was hard.

Impertinent schools,

With musty dull rules,

Have reading to females denied:
So papists refuse

The Bible to use,

Lest flocks should be wise as their guide.

"Twas a woman at first

(Indeed she was cursed)

In knowledge that tasted delight,
And sages agree

That laws should decree

To the first of possessors the right.

* This panegyric on Lady Mary Wortley Montague might have been suppressed by Mr. Pope, on account of Der having satirized him in her verses to the imitator of Horace: which abuse he returned in the first satire o the second book of Horace.

From furious Sappho, scarce a milder fate,
P-'d by her love, or libell'd by her hate.