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;
Misers are muck-worms; silk-worms, beaux;
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.
Oн, be thou bless'd with all that Heav'n can send,
Long health, long youth, long pleasure, and a friend:
Not with those toys the female world admire,
Riches that vex, and vanities that tire.
With added years, if life bring nothing new,
But like a sieve let every blessing through,
Some joy still lost, as each vain year runs o'er,
And all we gain some sad reflection more:
Is that a birth-day? 'tis, alas! too clear,
'Tis but the funeral of the former year.
Let joy or ease, let affluence or content,
And the gay conscience of a life well spent,
Calm every thought, inspirit every grace,
Glow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face.
Let day improve on day, and year on year,
Without a pain, a trouble, or a fear;
Till death, unfelt, that tender frame destroy,
In some soft dream, or ecstasy of joy,
Peaceful sleep out the sabbath of the tomb,
And wake to raptures in a life to come.
ON HIS BIRTH-DAY. 1742.
RESIGN'D to live, prepar❜d to die,
With not one sin but poetry,
This day Tom's fair account has run
(Without a blot) to eighty-one.
Kind Boyle, before his poet, lays
A table with a cloth of bays;
And Ireland, mother of sweet singers,
Presents her harp still to his fingers.
The feast, his towering genius marks
In yonder wild-goose and the larks!
The mushrooms show his wit was sudden!
And for his judgment, lo, a pudden!
Roast beef, though old, proclaims him stout,
And grace, although a bard, devout.
May Tom, whom Heav'n sent down to raise
The price of prologues and of plays,
Be every birth-day more a winner,
Digest his thirty-thousandth dinner;
Walk to his grave without reproach,
And scorn a rascal and a coach.
CARDELIA, SMILINDA, LOVET.
Card. THE basset-table spread, the tallier come,
Why stays Smilinda in the dressing-room?
Rise, pensive nymph! the tallier waits for you.
Smil. Ah, madam! since my Sharper is untrue,
I joyless make my once ador'd Alpeu.
I saw him stand behind Ombrelia's chair,
And whisper with that soft deluding air, [fair.
And those feign'd sighs which cheat the listening
Card. Is this the cause of your romantic strains?
A mightier grief my heavy heart sustains:
As you by love, so I by fortune cross'd;
One, one bad deal, three septlevas have lost.
Smil. Is that the grief which you compare with
With ease the smiles of fortune I resign: [mine?
Would all my gold in one bad deal were gone,
Were lovely Sharper mine, and mine alone.
Card. A lover lost is but a common care,
And prudent nymphs against that change prepare:
The knave of clubs thrice lost; oh! who could guess
This fatal stroke, this unforeseen distress?
Smil. See Betty Lovet! very à-propos,
She all the cares of love and play does know:
Dear Betty shall the' important point decide;
Betty! who oft the pain of each has tried;
Impartial, she shall say who suffers most,
By cards' ill usage, or by lovers' lost.
Lov. Tell, tell your griefs, attentive will I stay,
Though time is precious, and I want some tea.
Card. Behold this equipage, by Mathers wrought,
With fifty guineas (a great pen'worth) bought.
See on the toothpick Mars and Cupid strive,
And both the struggling figures seem alive.
Upon the bottom shines the queen's bright face;
A myrtle foliage round the thimble-case.
Jove, Jove himself, does on the scissars shine,
The metal and the workmanship divine. [er's love,
Smil. This snuff-box-once the pledge of Sharp-
When rival beauties for the present strove;
At Corticelli's he the raffle won;
Then first his passion was in public shown:
Hazardia blush'd, and turn'd her head aside,
A rival's envy (all in vain) to hide.
This snuff-box-on the hinge see brilliants shine,
This snuff-box will I stake the prize is mine.
Card. Alas! far lesser losses than I bear
Have made a soldier sigh, a lover swear.
And, oh! what makes the disappointment hard,
'Twas my own lord that drew the fatal card.
In complaisance I took the queen he gave,
Though my own secret wish was for the knave:
The knave won sonica, which I had chose,
And the next pull, my septleva I lose.
Smil. But, ah! what aggravates the killing smart
The cruel thought that stabs me to the heart;
This curs'd Ombrelia, this undoing fair,
By whose vile arts this heavy grief I bear;
She, at whose name I shed these spiteful tears,
She owes to me the very charms she wears.
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