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Such, fuch emotions should in Britons rise,
When prefs'd by want and weakness DENNIS lies
Dennis, who long had warr'd with modern Huns,
Their Quibbles routed, and defy'd their Puns;
A defp'rate Bulwark, sturdy, firm, and fierce
Against the Gothic Sons of frozen verfe:
How chang'd from him who made the boxes groan,
And shook the stage with Thunders all his own!
Stood up to dash each vain PRETENDER's hope,
Maul the French Tyrant, or pull down the POPE!
If there's a Briton then, true bred and born, 19
Who holds Dragoons and wooden fhoes in fcorn;
If there's a Critic of diftinguifh'd rage;
If there's a Senior, who contemns this age;
Let him to night his juft affiftance lend,
And be the Critic's, Briton's, Old Man's Friend.
VER. 12. Their Quibbles routed and defy'd their Puns ;] See Dunciad, Note on v. 63. B. I.
VER. 13. Adefp'rate Bulwark, etc.] See Dunc. Note on v. 268. B. II.
VER. 16. And hook the Stage with Thunders all his orun!] See Dunc. Note on v. 226. B. II.
VER. 17. Stood up to daß, etc.] See Dunc. Note on V. 173. B. III.
VER. 18. Maul the French Tyrant-] See Dunc. Note on v 413. B. II.
Ibid. or pull down the POPE !] See Dunc. Note on v. 63. B. I.
VER 21. If there's a critic of diftinguish'd rage.] See Dunc. Notes on v. 106. B. I.
HEN fimple Macer, now of high renown,
First fought a Poet's Fortune in the Town,
'Twas all th' Ambition his high foul could feel,
To wear red stockings, and to dine with Steel.
Some Ends of verse his Betters might afford,
And gave the harmlefs fellow a good word.
up with thefe, he ventur'd on the Town,
And with a borrow'd Play, out-did poor Crown.
There he ftop'd fhort, nor fince has writ a tittle,
But has the wit to make the moft of little:
Like ftunted hide-bound Trees, that just have got
Sufficient fap at once to bear and rot.
Now he begs Verfe, and what he gets commends, Not of the Wits his foes, but Fools his friends. 14
So fome coarse Country Wench, almoft decay'd,
Trudges to town, and firft turns Chambermaid;
Aukward and supple, each devoir to pay;
She flatters her good Lady twice a day;
Thought wond'rous honeft, tho' of mean degree,
And ftrangely lik'd for her Simplicity:
In a tranflated Suit, then tries the Town,
With borrow'd Pins, and Patches not her own:
But juft endur'd the winter fhe began,
And in four months a batter'd Harridan.
Now nothing left, but wither'd, pale, and fhrunk,
To bawd for others, and go fhares with Punk.
To Mr. JOHN MOORE,
AUTHOR of the celebrated WORM
TOW much, egregious Moore, are we
Deceiv'd by fhews and forms!
Whate'er we think, whate'er we fee,
All Humankind are Wormis.
Man is a very Worm by birth,
Vile, Reptile, weak, and vain!
A while he crawls upon the earth,
Then fhrinks to earth again.
That Woman is a Worm, we find
E're fince our Grandame's evil?
She first convers'd with her own kind,
That ancient Worm, the Devil.
The Learn'd themselves we Book-worms name,
The Blockhead is a Slow worm;
The Nymph whofe tail is all on flame,
Is aptly term'd a Glow-worm:
The Fops are painted Butterflies,
That flutter for a day;
First from a Worm they take their rife,
And in a Worm decay.
The Flatterer an Earwig grows ;
Thus Worms fuit all conditions;
Mifers are Muck-worms, Silk-worms Beaus,
And Death-watches Phyficians.
That Statefmen 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 skill were well employ'd,
And greater gain would rise,
If thou could'st 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 fhall eat ev'n thee.
Our Fate thou only can'st adjourn
Some few short years, no more!
Ev'n Button's Wits to Worms fhall turn,
Who Maggots were before.
SONG, by a Person of Quality.
Written in the Year 1733.
Lutt'ring 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 flow'ry Rocks.
Thus the Cyprian Goddess weeping,
Mourn'd Adonis, darling Youth:
Him the Boar in Silence creeping,
Gor'd with unrelenting Tooth.
Cynthia, tune harmonious Numbers;
Fair Difcretion, ftring the Lyre;
Sooth my ever-waking Slumbers:
Bright Apollo, lend thy Choir.