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MISCELLANIES.

OCCASIONED BY SOME VERSES OF HIS GRACE
THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM'.

MUSE, 'tis enough; at length thy labour ends
And thou shalt live, for BUCKINGHAM Commends.
Let crowds of critics now my verse assail,
Let Dennis write, and nameless numbers rail;
This more than pays whole years of thankless pain,
Time, health, and fortune, are not lost in vain.
SHEFFIELD approves; consenting Phoebus bends;
And I and malice from this hour are friends.

NOTES.

1 The verses referred to, are the first among the Commendatory Poems in the preceding volume.

MACER:

A CHARACTER.

WHEN Simple Macer, now of high renown,
First sought a Poet's Fortune in the Town,

NOTES.

Ver. 1. When simple Macer,] Said to be the character of James Moore Smith, author of the Rival Modes, a comedy, in 1726. He pilfered verses from Pope. He joined in a political paper with the Duke of Wharton, called The Inquisitor, written with such violence against government, that he was soon obliged to drop it. This character was first printed in the Miscellanies of Swift and Pope, 1727.-Warton.

Dr. Warton thinks this character was intended for J. Moore Smith; but it seems to me more likely that Phillips, Pope's redoubted rival in Pastoral, was intended. My reasons for thinking so are, he is elsewhere called lean Phillips,

VOL. III.

"Lean Phillips and fat Johnson."

[" Macer"

"Twas all th' ambition his high soul could feel,
To wear red stockings, and to dine with Steele.
Some ends of verse his betters might afford,
And gave the harmless fellow a good word.
Set up with these, he ventur'd on the Town,
And with a borrow'd Play, out-did poor Crown.
There he stopp'd short, nor since has writ a tittle,
But has the wit to make the most of little:
Like stunted hide-bound Trees, that just have got
Sufficient Sap at once to bear and rot.

Now he begs Verse, and what he gets commends,
Not of the Wits his foes, but Fools his friends.

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So some coarse Country Wench, almost decay'd, 15 Trudges to town, and first turns Chambermaid; Aukward and supple, each devoir to pay; She flatters her good Lady twice a day; Tho' wondrous honest, tho' of mean degree, And strangely lik'd for her Simplicity: In a translated Suit, then tries the Town,

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With borrow'd Pins, and Patches not her own:

But just endur'd the winter she began,

And in four months a batter'd Harridan,

Now nothing left, but wither'd, pale, and shrunk,
To bawd for others, and go shares with Punk.

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NOTES.

"Macer" certainly alludes to this. He began his literary career with worshipping" Steele" and Addison. He "borrow'd" a play from Voltaire, the Distrest Mother; Simplicity," is applied to the " Pastorals," and

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"Translated Suit," to the translation of the Persian Tales:
"And turns a Persian tale for half-a-crown!"— Bowles.

TO MR. JOHN MOORE,

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 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 whose 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 rise,

And in a Worm decay.

The Flatterer an Earwig 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.

SONG,

BY A PERSON OF QUALITY.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1733.

I.

FLUTT'RING spread thy purple pinions,
Gentle Cupid, o'er my Heart;
I a Slave in thy dominions;
Nature must give way to Art.

II.

Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,
Nightly nodding o'er your flocks,
See my weary days consuming,
All beneath yon flow'ry rocks.

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