That Statesmen 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 fkill were well employ'd,
And greater gain would rise,
If thou could'ft 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 Perfon of Quality.
Written in the Year 1733.
Luttering fpread 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 confuming,
All beneath yon flowery Rocks.
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.
Gloomy Pluto, King of Terrors,
Arm'd in adamantine Chains,
Lead me to the Crystal Mirrors,
Watering foft Elysian Plains.
Mournful Cypress, verdant Willow,
Gilding my Aurelia's Brows,
Morpheus hovering o'er my Pillow,
Hear me pay my dying vows.
Melancholy fmooth Meander,
Swiftly purling in a Round,
On thy Margin Lovers wander,
With thy flowery Chaplets crown'd.
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 3
(Envy be filent, and attend !)
I know a reasonable Woman,
Handsome and witty, yet a Friend.
Not warp'd by Paffion, aw'd by Rumour,
Not grave through Pride, nor gay through Folly,
An equal Mixture of Good-humour,
And fenfible soft Melancholy.
"Has she no faults then (Envy fays) Sir?"
Yes, fhe 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,
MARBLE, SPARS, GEMS, ORES, and MINERALS.
HOU who fhalt ftop, where Thames' translucent
Shines a broad Mirrour 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 ftudiously behold!
And eye the Mine without a wish for Gold.
Approach: but awful! Lo! th' Ægerian Grott,
Where, nobly penfive, ST. JOHN fat and thought;
Where British fighs from dying WYNDHAM ftole,
And the bright flame was shot through MARCHMOHT'S
Soul.
Let fuch, fuch only, tread this facred Floor,
Who dare to love their Country, and be poor.
To Mrs. M. B. on her BIRTH-DAY.
OH, be thou bleft with all that Heaven can send,
Long Health, long Youth, long Pleasure, and a
Friend:
Not with thofe 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 bleffing through,
Some joy ftill loft, as each vain year runs o'er,
And all we gain, fome fad Reflection more;
Is that a Birth-Day? 'tis, alas! too clear,
"Tis but the Funeral of the former year.
Let Joy or Eafe, let Affluence or Content,
And the gay Conscience of a life well spent,
Calm every thought, infpirit every grace,
Glow in thy heart, and fimile 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 deftroy,
In fome foft dream, or Ecftafy of joy,
Peaceful fleep out the Sabbath of the Tomb,
And wake to Raptures in a Life to come.
Ver. 15. Originally thus in the MS.
And oh fince Death must that fair frame destroy,
Die, by fome fudden Ecftafy of Joy;
In fome foft dream may thy mild foul remove,
And be thy lateft gafp a Sigh of Love.
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