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Occafioned by fome 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 verfe affail, Let Dennis write, and nameless numbers rail: This more than pays whole years of thankless pain, Time, health, and fortune, are not loft in vain. Sheffield approves, confenting Phoebus bends, And I and Malice from this hour are friends.



To a Play for Mr. DENNIS's Benefit, in 1733, when he was old, blind, and in great Diftrefs, a little before his Death.

S when that Hero, who in each Campaign,

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Had brav'd the Goth, and many a Vandal flain,

Lay Fortune-ftruck, a spectacle of Woe!

Wept by each Friend, forgiv'n by every Foe:
Was there a generous, a reflecting mind,

But pitied Belifarius old and blind?


Was there a Chief but melted at the Sight?

A common Soldier, but who clubb'd his Mite?


Such, fuch emotions fhould in Britons rife,
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 defperate Bulwark, fturdy, firm, and fierce
Against the Gothic Sons of frozen verfe:


How chang'd from him who made the boxes groan, 15
And shook the stage with Thunders all his own!
Stood up to dafh each vain Pretender's hope,
Maul the French Tyrant, or pull down the Pope!
If there's a Briton then, true bred and born,
Who holds Dragoons and wooden fhoes in fcorn;
If there's a Critic of diftinguish'd rage;

If there's a Senior, who contemns this age;
Let him to-night his just assistance lend,

And be the Critic's, Briton's, Old Man's Friend.


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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 harmless fellow a good word.
Set up with thefe, he ventur'd on the Town,
And with a borrow'd Play out-did poor Crown.


There he stopp'd fhort, nor fince has writ a tittle,
But has the Wit to make the most 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.
So fome coarse Country Wench, almost decay'd, 15
Trudges to town, and firft turns Chambermaid;
Awkward and fupple, each devoir to pay ;
She flatters her good Lady twice a-day;

Thought wondrous honeft, though 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 just endur'd the Winter fhe began,

And in four Months a batter'd Harridan.


Now nothing left, but wither'd, pale, and fhrunk, 25
To bawd for others, and go fhares with Punk.

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AUTHOR of the celebrated WORM-POWDER.

OW much, egregious Moore, are we

Η Deceiv'd by fhews and forms!

Whate'er we think, whate'er we fee,
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 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 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 fuit all conditions;

Mifers are Muck-worms, Silk-worms Beaus,

And Death-watches Physicians.


That Statesmen 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 rife,

If thou could'ft 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'ft adjourn
Some few fhort years, no more!
Ev'n Button's Wits to Worms fhall turn,
Who Maggots were before.


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