While the spread fan o'ershades your closing eyes;
Then give one flirt, and all the vision flies.
Thus vanish sceptres, coronets, and balls,
And leave you in lone woods, or empty walls!
So when your slave, at some dear idle time,
(Not plagued with headachs or the want of rhyme)
Stands in the streets, abstracted from the crew,
And while he seems to study, thinks of
Just when his fancy points your sprightly eyes,
Or sees the blush of soft Parthenia rise,
Gay pats my shoulder, and you vanish quite,
Streets, chairs, and coxcombs rush upon my sight;
Vext to be still in town, I knit my brow,
Look sour, and hum a tune, as you may now.
AUTHOR OF THE CELEBRATED WORM-POWDER.
How much, egregious Moore! are we
Deceiv'd by shows and forms!
Whate'er we think, whate'er we see,
All humankind are worms.
Man is a very worm by birth,
Vile reptile, weak, 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 grandam's evil;
She first convers'd with her own kind,
That ancient worm, the devil.
The learn'd themselves we bookworms name,
The blockhead is a slowworm;
The nymph whose tail is all on flame,
Is aptly term'd a glowworm.
The fops are painted butterflies,
That flutter for a day;
First from a worm they take their rise,
And in a worm decay.
The flatterer an earwig grows;
Thus worms suit all conditions;
Misers are muckworms; silkworms, beaux;
And deathwatches, 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!
Oh learned friend of Abchurch-lane,
Who sett'st our entrails free;
Vain is thy art, thy powder vain,
Since worms shall eat e'en thee.
Our fate thou only canst adjourn
Some few short years, no more!
E'en Button's wits to worms shall turn,
Who maggots were before.
EPISTLE TO MRS. MARTHA BLOUNT,
OH be thou bless'd 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 birthday? 'tis, alas! too clear,
"Tis but the funeral of the former year.
Let joy or ease, let affluence or content,
And the gay conscience of a life well spent,
Calm every thought, inspirit every 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 soft dream, or ecstasy of joy,
Peaceful sleep out the sabbath of the tomb,
And wake to raptures in a life to come.
RESIGN'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,1 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 towering genius marks
In yonder wildgoose and the larks!
The mushrooms show 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 Heaven sent down to raise
The price of prologues and of plays,3
Be every birthday more a winner,
Digest his thirty-thousandth dinner;
Walk to his grave without reproach,
And scorn a rascal in a coach.
1 Southerne was invited to dine on his birthday with Lord Orrery, who had prepared the entertainment, of which the bill of fare is here set down.
2 The Harp generally woven on Irish linen, such as tablecloths, &c.
The usual price given to Dryden for a prologue was four
ROXANA, OR THE DRAWING ROOM.
ROXANA from the court returning late,
Sigh'd her soft sorrow at St. James's gate:
Such heavy thoughts lay brooding in her breast;
Not her own chairmen with more weight opprest:
They curse the cruel weight they're doom'd to bear;
She in more gentle sounds express'd her care.
Was it for this, that I these roses wear?
For this, new-set the jewels for my hair?
Ah Princess! with what zeal have I pursu'd?
Almost forgot the duty of a prude.
This king I never could attend too soon ;
I miss'd my prayers, to get me dress'd by noon.
For thee, ah! what for thee did I resign?
My passions, pleasures, all that e'er was mine:
I've sacrific'd both modesty and ease;
Left operas, and went to filthy plays:
Double entendres shock'd my tender ear;
Yet even this, for thee, I choose to bear :
guineas; till Southerne, then a young man, having applied to him for one, Dryden refused to furnish it under six guineas. Southerne was the first dramatist who had the benefit of a third night.
This and the following piece are two of six Town Eclogues: the four others were written by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu. Probably the two here given were also from her pen, and only corrected by Pope.
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