The flatterer an ear-wig 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 couldst make the courtier void,
The worm that never dies!

O learned friend of Abchurch-lane,
Who sett'st our entrails free;

Vain is thy art, thy powder vain,
Since worms shall eat ev'n thee.

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

EPISTLE VII.

TO MRS. M. B

On her birth-day.

OH! be thou bless'd with all that Heav'n 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 ev'ry blessing through, Some joys 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 fun'ral of the former year: Let joy or ease, let affluence or content, And the gay conscience of a life well spent, Calm ev'ry thought, inspirit ev'ry 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 scft dream, or ecstacy of joy, Peaceful sleep out the sabbath of the tomb, And wake to raptures in a life to come.

R

EPISTLE VIII.

TO MR. THOMAS SOUTHERN,

On his birth-day, 1742.

ESIGN'D to live, prepar'd to die,
With not one sin but poetry.
This day Tom's fair account 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 tow'ring genius marks
In yonder wild-goose, and the larks !
The mushrooms shew 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 Heav'n sent down to raise
The price of prologues and of plays,
Be ev'ry birth-day more a winner,
Digest his thirty-thousandth dinner ;
Walk to his grave without reproach,
And scorn a rascal and a coach.

MISCELLANIES.

TH

THE BASSET-TABLE.

AN ECLOGUE.

CARDELIA, SMILINDA, LOVET.

CARDELIA.

HE Basset-table spread, the tallier come, Why stays Smilinda in the dressing-room? Rise, pensive nymph! the tallier waits for you.' SMIL. Ah, Madam! since my Sharper is un

true,

I joyless make my once ador'd Alpheu.
I saw him stand behind Ombrelia's chair,
And whisper with that soft deluding air,

And those feign'd sighs which cheat the list'ning fair.

CARD. Is this the cause of your romantic strains?

A mightier grief my heavy heart sustains;
As you by love, so I by fortune crost;
One, one bad deal, three Septlevas have lost.
SMIL. Is that the grief which you compare
with mine?

With ease the smiles of fortune I resign:

Would all my gold in one bad deal were gone, Were lovely Sharper mine, and mine alone.

CARD. A lover lost, is but a common care; And prudent nymphs against that change prepare: The knave of clubs thrice lost; oh! who could guess

The fatal stroke, this unforeseen distress?

SMIL. See Betty Lovet!—very à-propos,— She all the cares of love and play does know: Dear Betty shall th' important point decide; Betty, who oft the pain of each has try'd: Impartial, she shall say who suffers most, By cards,ill usage,- -or by lovers lost.

LOV. Tell, tell your griefs, attentive will I stay, Though time is precious, and I want some tea. CARD. Behold this equipage, by Mathers wrought,

With fifty guineas (a great penn'worth) bought.
See on the toothpick Mars and Cupid strive,
And both the struggling figures seem alive.
Upon the bottom shines the Queen's bright face;
A myrtle foilage round the thimble-case.
Jove, Jove himself does on the scissors shine,
The metal and the workmanship, divine!

SMIL. This snuff-box-once the pledge of
Sharper's love,

When rival beauties for the present strove ;
At Corticelli's he the raffle won:

Then first his passion was in public shown: