4 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:

5 The fops are painted butterflies, That flutter for a day; First from a worm they take their rise, And in a worm decay.

6 The flatterer an earwig grows; Thus worms suit all conditions; Misers are muck-worms, silk-worms beaux.

And death-watches, physicians.

7 That statesmen have the worm, is seen By all their winding play; Their conscience is a worm within, That gnaws them night and day.

8 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!

9 O learned friend of Abchurch Lane, Who sett'st our entrails free!

Vain is thy art, thy powder vain, Since worms shall eat even thee.

10 Our fate thou only canst adjourn Some few short years--no more; Even Button's Wits to worms shall turn, Who maggots were before.

TO MR C.,[80] ST JAMES'S PLACE.

1 Few words are best; I wish you well: Bethel, I'm told, will soon be here; Some morning walks along the Mall, And evening friends, will end the year.

2 If in this interval, between The falling leaf and coming frost, You please to see, on Twit'nam green, Your friend, your poet, and your host:

3 For three whole days you here may rest From office business, news, and strife; And (what most folks would think a jest) Want nothing else except your wife.

EPITAPHS.

I. ON CHARLES EARL OF DORSET, IN THE CHURCH OF WITHYAM, IN SUSSEX.

'His saltem accumulem donis, et fungar inani Munere!'

VIRG.

Dorset, the grace of courts, the Muses' pride, Patron of arts, and judge of nature, died.

The scourge of pride, though sanctified or great, Of fops in learning, and of knaves in state: Yet soft his nature, though severe his lay, His anger moral, and his wisdom gay.

Bless'd satirist! who touch'd the mean so true, As show'd vice had his hate and pity too.

Blest courtier! who could king and country please, Yet sacred keep his friendships, and his ease.

Blest peer! his great forefathers' every grace Reflecting, and reflected in his race; Where other Buckhursts, other Dorsets shine, And patriots still, or poets, deck the line.

II. ON SIR WILLIAM TRUMBULL.[81]

A pleasing form; a firm, yet cautious mind; Sincere, though prudent; constant, yet resign'd: Honour unchanged, a principle profess'd, Fix'd to one side, but moderate to the rest: An honest courtier, yet a patriot too; Just to his prince, and to his country true: Fill'd with the sense of age, the fire of youth, A scorn of wrangling, yet a zeal for truth; A generous faith, from superstition free: A love to peace, and hate of tyranny; Such this man was; who now, from earth removed, At length enjoys that liberty he loved.

III. ON THE HON. SIMON HARCOURT, ONLY SON OF THE LORD CHANCELLOR HARCOURT, AT THE CHURCH OF STANTON HARCOURT, IN OXFORDSHIRE, 1720.

To this sad shrine, whoe'er thou art, draw near; Here lies the friend most loved, the son most dear: Who ne'er knew joy, but friendship might divide, Or gave his father grief but when he died.

How vain is reason, eloquence how weak!

If Pope must tell what Harcourt cannot speak.

Oh, let thy once-loved friend inscribe thy stone, And, with a father's sorrows, mix his own!

IV. ON JAMES CRAGGS, ESQ. IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

JACOBUS CRAGGS REGI MAGNAE BRITANNIA A SECRETIS ET CONSILIIS SANCTIORIBUS, PRINCIPIS PARITER AC POPULI AMOR ET DELICIAE: VIXIT TITULIS ET INVIDIA MAJOR ANNOS, HEU PAUCOS, XXXV. OB. FEB. XVI. MDCCXX.

Statesman, yet friend to Truth! of soul sincere, In action faithful, and in honour clear!

Who broke no promise, served no private end, Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend; Ennobled by himself, by all approved, Praised, wept, and honour'd by the Muse he loved.

V. INTENDED FOR MR ROWE, IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

Thy relics, Rowe, to this fair urn we trust, And sacred place by Dryden's awful dust: Beneath a rude and nameless stone he lies, To which thy tomb shall guide inquiring eyes.

Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest!

Blest in thy genius, in thy love, too, blest!

One grateful woman to thy fame supplies What a whole thankless land to his denies.

VI. ON MRS CORBET, WHO DIED OF A CANCER IN HER BREAST.

Here rests a woman, good without pretence, Blest with plain reason, and with sober sense: No conquests she, but o'er herself, desired, No arts essay'd, but not to be admired.

Passion and pride were to her soul unknown, Convinced that virtue only is our own.

So unaffected, so composed a mind; So firm, yet soft; so strong, yet so refined; Heaven, as its purest gold, by tortures tried; The saint sustain'd it, but the woman died.

VII. ON THE MONUMENT OF THE HONOURABLE EGBERT DIGBY, AND HIS SISTER MARY.

ERECTED BY THEIR FATHER THE LORD DIGBY, IN THE CHURCH OF SHERBORNE, IN DORSETSHIRE, 1727.

Go! fair example of untainted youth, Of modest wisdom, and pacific truth: Composed in sufferings, and in joy sedate, Good without noise, without pretension great.

Just of thy word, in every thought sincere, Who knew no wish but what the world might hear: Of softest manners, unaffected mind, Lover of peace, and friend of human kind: Go live! for Heaven's eternal year is thine,[82]

Go, and exalt thy moral to divine.

And thou, bless'd maid! attendant on his doom, Pensive hast follow'd to the silent tomb, Steer'd the same course to the same quiet shore, Not parted long, and now to part no more!

Go then, where only bliss sincere is known!

Go, where to love and to enjoy are one!

Yet take these tears, Mortality's relief, And till we share your joys, forgive our grief: These little rites, a stone, a verse receive; 'Tis all a father, all a friend can give!