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Like stunted hide-bound Trees, that just have got
So some coarse Country Wench, almost decay'd,
In a translated Suit, then tries the Town,
And in four months a batter'd Harridan.
Now nothing left, but wither'd, pale, and shrunk, To bawd for others, and go shares with Punk.
TO MR. JOHN MOORE,
AUTHOR OF THE CELEBRATED WORM-POWDER.
How much, egregious Moore, are we
Man is a very Worm by birth,
That Woman is a Worm, we find
The Learn'd themselves we Book-worms name,
The Nymph whose tail is all on flame,
The Fops are painted Butterflies,
First from a Worm they take their rise,
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,
Their Conscience is a Worm within,
Ah Moore! thy skill were well employ'd,
If thou couldst make the Courtier void
O learned Friend of Abchurch-Lane,
Our Fate thou only canst adjourn
Who Maggots were before.
BY A PERSON OF QUALITY.
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1733.
FLUTT'RING Spread thy purple pinions,
Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,
Nightly nodding o'er your flocks,
Thus the Cyprian Goddess weeping,
Gloomy Pluto, King of Terrors,
Mournful Cypress, verdant Willow,
Thus when Philomela, drooping,
Ir is remarkable, that this song imposed upon one of Pope's professed Commentators, the late learned Gilbert Wakefield, who took it for a serious composition: "It appears," he says, “disjointed and obscure," and asks, in reference to the fourth verse," what is the propriety of this observation? and what its application to the present subject?" On this occasion Mr. Toulmin, a friend of Mr. Wakefield's, addressed to him a copy of verses, which Mr. Wakefield,