To the Ingenious Mr. MOORE, Author of the Celebrated WORM-POWDER.
[1]By Mr. POPE.
HOW much, Egregious MOORE, are we
Deceiv'd by Shews, and Forms?
Whate'er we think, whate'er we ſee,
All Human Race are Worms.
Man, is a very Worm by Birth,
Proud Reptile, vile and vain,
A-while he crawls upon the Earth,
Then ſhrinks to Earth again.
That Woman is a Worm we find,
E'er ſince our Gran'am's Evil:
She firſt convers'd with her own kind,
That Ancient Worm, the Devil.
But whether Man, or He, God knows,
Foecundified her Belly,
With that pure Stuff from whence we roſe,
The Genial Vermicelli.
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.
[2]The Fops are painted Butter-Flies,
That flutter for a Day;
Firſt from a Worm they took their Riſe,
Then in a Worm decay.
The Flatterer an Ear-wig grows.
Some Worms ſuit all Conditions;
Miſers are Muck-Worms, Silk-Worms Beaus,
And Death-Watches Phyſicians.
That Stateſmen have a 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 wou'd riſe,
If thou could'ſt 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.
Thou only can'ſt our Fates adjourn,
Some few ſhort Years, no more;
Ev'n BUTTON's Wits to Worms ſhall turn,
Who Maggots were before.
FINIS.