TO THE SAME, ON HER LEAVING THE TOWN AFTER THE CORONATION, 1715. AS some fond virgin, whom her mother's care To morning walks, and pray'rs three hours a-day; 15 Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon, Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon; Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire, Hum half a tune, tell stories to the squire: 20 Up to her godly garret after sev❜n, There starve and pray, for that's the way to heav'n. Some squire, perhaps, you take delight to rack, Whose game is Whist, whose treat a toast in sack; Who visits with a gun, presents you birds, Then gives a smacking buss, and cries—no words! Or with his hounds come hallowing from the stable, Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table; Whose laughs are hearty, tho' his jests are coarse, And loves you best of all things-but his horse. In some fair ev'ning, on your elbow laid, You dream of triumphs in the rural shade; In pensive thought recall the fancy'd scene, See coronations rise on ev'ry green : Before you pass th' imaginary sights 25 30 35 Of lords, and earls, and dukes, and garter'd knights; So when your slave, at some dear idle time, [Not plagu'd with headachs or the want of rhyme,] Stands in the streets abstracted from the crew, 40 And while he seems to study, thinks of you; 45 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. 50 M 2 EPISTLE VI. TO MR. JOHN MOORE, AUTHOR OF THE CELE BRATED WORM-POWDER. HOW much, egregious Moore! are we Deceiv'd by shews and forms! Whate'er we think, whate'er we see, 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. 15 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 ear-wig grows; Thus worms suit all conditions ; 20 Misers are muck-worms, silk-worms beaus, Ah, Moore! thy skill were well employ'd, 30 If thou couldst make the courtier void The worm that never dies! O learned friend of Abchurch-lane, Vain is thy art, thy powder vain, 35 Since worms shall eat ev'n thee. |