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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.
BY MR. POPE,
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,
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:
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,
How chang'd from him who made the boxes groan, 15
If there's a Senior, who contemns this age;
And be the Critic's, Briton's, Old Man's Friend.
HEN fimple Macer, now of high renown,
There he stopp'd fhort, nor fince has writ a tittle,
Now he begs Verfe, and what he gets commends,
Thought wondrous honeft, though of mean degree,
In a tranflated Suit, then tries the Town,
With borrow'd Pins, and Patches not her own:
And in four Months a batter'd Harridan.
Now nothing left, but wither'd, pale, and fhrunk, 25
To Mr. JOHN MOORE,
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,
Man is a very Worm by birth,
That Woman is a Worm, we find
The learn'd themselves we Book-worms name,
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,
Ah Moore! thy skill were well employ'd,
If thou could'ft make the Courtier void
O learned Friend of Abchurch-Lane,
Our Fate thou only can'ft adjourn