Misers are muck-worms, silk-worms beaux,
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 employed,
And greater gain would rise,

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

O learned friend of Abchurch Lane,1
Who settest our entrails free,
Vain is thy art, thy powder vain,
Since worms shall eat even thee.

Our fate thou only canst adjourn
Some few short years, no more!
Even Button's wits to worms shall turn,
Who maggots were before.

SANDY'S GHOST; OR, A PROPER NEW BALLAD ON
THE NEW OVID'S METAMORPHOSES:

AS IT WAS INTENDED TO BE TRANSLATED BY PERSONS
OF QUALITY.

Sir Walter Scott, quoted by Roscoe, explains the ballad to refer to a translation of the Metamorphoses published by Sir Samuel Garth.

YE Lords and Commons, men of wit,

And pleasure about town;

Read this ere you translate one bit

Of books of high renown.

1 Abchurch (properly Upchurch) Lane, Lombard Street.

Beware of Latin authors all!

Nor think your verses sterling, Though with a golden pen you scrawl, And scribble in a Berlin:

For not the desk with silver nails,

Nor standish well japanned avails
To writing of good sense.

Hear how a ghost in dead of night,
With saucer eyes of fire,
In woeful wise did sore affright

A wit and courtly squire.

Rare Imp of Phoebus, hopeful youth
Like puppy tame that uses

To fetch and carry, in his mouth,
The works of all the muses.

Ah! why did he write poetry,
That hereto was so civil;
And sell his soul for vanity,
To rhyming and the devil?

A desk he had of curious work,
With glittering studs about;
Within the same did Sandys lurk,
Though Ovid lay without.

Now as he scratched to fetch up thought,
Forth popped the sprite so thin:

And from the key-hole bolted out,

All upright as a pin.

With whiskers, band, and pantaloon,

And ruff composed most duly;

This squire he dropped his pen full soon,
While as the light burnt bluely.

"Ho! Master Sam," quoth Sandys' sprite,
"Write on, nor let me scare ye;
Forsooth, if rhymes fall in not right,
To Budgell seek, or Carey.

"I hear the beat of Jacob's drums,
Poor Ovid finds no quarter!
See first the merry P—— comes 1
In haste, without his garter.

"Then lords and lordlings, squires and knights, Wits, witlings, prigs, and peers!

Garth at St. James's, and at White's,
Beats up for volunteers.

"What Fenton will not do, nor Gay,

Nor Congreve, Rowe, nor Stanyan,
Tom Burnett or Tom D'Urfey may,
John Dunton, Steele, or any one.

"If Justice Philips' costive head
Some frigid rhymes disburses;
They shall like Persian tales be read,
And glad both babes and nurses.

"Let Warwick's muse with Ashurst join,
And Ozell's with Lord Hervey's:

Tickell and Addison combine,

And Pope translate with Jervas.

"Lansdowne himself, that lively lord, Who bows to every lady,

1 The Earl of Pembroke, probably.—Roscoe,

Shall join with Frowde in one accord,
And be like Tate and Brady.

"Ye ladies too draw forth your pen,
I pray where can the hurt lie?
Since you have brains as well as men,
As witness Lady Wortley.

"Now, Tonson, 'list thy forces all,
Review them, and tell noses;

For to poor Ovid shall befall

A strange metamorphosis.

"A metamorphosis more strange

Than all his books can vapour;"

"To what" (quoth squire) "shall Ovid change?" Quoth Sandys: "To waste paper."

THE TRANSLATOR.

Egbert Sanger served his apprenticeship with Jacob Tonson, and succeeded Bernard Lintot in his shop at Middle Temple Gate, Fleet Street. Lintot printed Ozell's translation of Perrault's Characters, and Sanger his translation of Boileau's Lutrin, recommended by Rowe, in 1709.—Warton.

OZELL, at Sanger's call, invoked his muse-
For who to sing for Sanger could refuse?
His numbers such as Sanger's self might use.
Reviving Perrault, murdering Boileau, he
Slandered the ancients first, then Wycherley;

Which yet not much that old bard's anger raised,
Since those were slandered most, whom Ozell praised.
Nor had the gentle satire caused complaining,
Had not sage Rowe pronounced it entertaining:
How great must be the judgment of that writer
Who the Plain-dealer damns, and prints the Biter!

THE THREE GENTLE SHEPHERDS.

OF gentle Philips will I ever sing,
With gentle Philips shall the valleys ring.
My numbers too for ever will I vary,
With Gentle Budgell and with gentle Carey.
Or if in ranging of the names I judge ill,
With gentle Carey and with gentle Budgell:
Oh! may all gentle bards together place ye,
Men of good hearts, and men of delicacy.
May satire ne'er befool ye, or beknave ye,
And from all wits that have a knack, God save ye.

LINES WRITTEN IN WINDSOR FOREST.

ALL hail, once pleasing, once inspiring shade!
Scene of my youthful loves and happier hours!
Where the kind muses met me as I strayed,

ΙΟ

And gently pressed my hand, and said, "Be ours!-Take all thou e'er shalt have, a constant muse : At court thou mayst be liked, but nothing gain: Stock thou mayst buy and sell, but always lose, And love the brightest eyes, but love in vain.”

TO MRS. MARTHA BLOUNT ON HER BIRTHDAY.

1723.

OH! be thou blest 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,