The BOO K-W OR M.

OME hither, boy, we'll hunt to-day

The Book-Worm, ravening beast of prey,

Produc'd by parent earth, at odds,
As fame reports it, with the Gods.
Him frantic hunger wildly drives
Against a thousand Authors lives:
Thro' all the fields of wit he flies ;
Dreadful his head with cluft'ring eyes,
With horns without, and tusks within,
And scales to ferve him for a skin.
Obferve him nearly, left he climb

To wound the bards of ancient time,

Or down the vale of fancy go

To tear fome modern wretch below.

On ev'ry corner fix thine eye,

Or ten to one he flips thee by.

See

See where his teeth a paffage eat: We'll roufe him from the deep retreat.

But who the shelter's forc'd to give?
'Tis facred Virgil, as I live!

From leaf to leaf, from fong to fong,
He draws the tadpole form along,

He mounts the gilded edge before,

He's

up, he fcuds the cover o'er,

He turns, he doubles, there he past,

And here we have him, caught at last.

Infatiate brute, whofe teeth abuse

The sweeteft fervants of the Mufe.

(Nay never offer to deny,

I took thee in the fact to fly.)

His rofes nipt in ev'ry page,

My poor Anacreon mourns thy rage.

By thee my Ovid wounded lies

;

By thee my Lesbia's fparrow dies:
Thy rabid teeth have half deftroy'd
The work of love in Biddy Floyd,

They

They rent Belinda's locks away,

And spoil'd the Blouzelnd of Gay.
For all, for ev'ry fingle deed,
Relentless justice bids thee bleed.

Then fall a victim to the Nine,

My felf the priest, my desk the shrine.
Bring Homer, Virgil, Taffo near,
To pile a facred altar here;

Hold, boy, thy hand out-runs thy wit,
You reach'd the plays that Dennis writ ;
You reach'd me Philips ruftic ftrain ;

Pray take your mortal Bards again.

Come bind the victim,

there he lies,

And here between his num'rous eyes.

This venerable dust I lay,

From manuscripts just swept away.

The goblet in my hand I take,

(For the libation's yet to make)
A health to Poets! all their days
May they have bread, as well as praife;

Senfe

Senfe may they feek, and lefs engage
In papers fill'd with party-rage.

But if their riches spoil their vein,
Ye Muses, make them poor again.

Now bring the weapon, yonder blade,
With which my tuneful pens are made.
I ftrike the scales that arm thee round,
And twice and thrice I print the wound
The facred altar floats with red,

And now he dies, and now he's dead.
How like the fon of Jove I ftand,
This Hydra ftretch'd beneath my hand!
Lay bare the monster's entrails here,
To see what dangers threat the year :

Ye Gods! what fonnets on a wench ?

What lean translations out of French?

"Tis plain, this lobe is fo unfound,

S

prints, before the months go round.

But hold, before I close the scene,

The facred altar fhould be clean.

Oh

Oh had I Shadwell's fecond bays,
Or Tate! thy pert and humble lays!
(Ye pair, forgive mẹ, when I vow
I never miss'd your works till now)
I'd tear the leaves to wipe the fhrine,
(That only way you please the Nine)
But fince I chance to want these two,
I'll make the fongs of Durfey do.

Rent from the corps, on yonder pin,
I hang the fcales that brac'd it in ;
I hang my ftudious morning gown,
And write my own infcription down.

"This trophy from the Python won,
"This robe, in which the deed was done,
"These, Parnell, glorying in the feat,
"Hung on these shelves, the Muses feat.
"Here ignorance and hunger found
"Large realms of wit to ravage round;
"Here ignorance and hunger fell;
"Two foes in one I fent to hell.

"Ye