But Lintot is at vast expense, Lintot's for gen'ral use are fit; For some folks read, but all folks sh→. TO MR. JOHN MORE, AUTHOR OF THE CELEBRATED WORM-POWDER. How much, egregious MORE, are we Man is a very worm by birth, That woman is a worm, we find, 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, The fops are painted butterflies, First from a worm they take their rise, The flatterer an ear-wig grows; Thus worms suit all conditions ; Misers are muck-worms, silk-worms beaus, That statesmen have the worm, is seen Ah More thy skill were well employ'd, If thou could'st make the courtier void O learned friend of Abchurch-lane,* Vain is thy art, thy powder vain, Our fate thou only canst adjourn E'en Button'st wits to worms shall turn, * Mr. John More was an advertising apothecary in Abchurchlane. N. + Button's coffee-house, in Covent-garden, frequented by the wifs of that time. H. VERSES •CCASIONED BY AN &C. AT THE END OF MR. D'URFEY'S NAME, IN THE TITLE TO ONE OF HIS PLAYS. JOVE call'd before him t'other day The vowels, U, O, I, E, A ; All dipthongs, and all consonants, Were silent, which by Fate's decree To the sweet name of Tom D'Urfey. In the great name of Tom D'Urfey. A place in any British name Yet, making here a perfect botch, Thrusts your poor vowel from his notch ; Hiatus mi valdè deflendus ! From which, good Jupiter, defend us! Sooner I'd quit my part in thee, Than be no part in Tom D'Urfey. * *This accident happened by Mr. D'Urfey's having made a flour ish there, which the printer mistook for an &c. H. P protested, puff'd, and swore, He'd not be serv'd. so like a beast; And made up half a pope at least. That of his grace he would proclaim For though, without them both, 'twas clear Yet they'd resign that post so high, B and L swore b- and w—s! In the great name of Tom D'Urfey. They, tho' but standers by, too mutter'd; Diphthongs and triphthongs swore and flutter'd : That none had so much right to be Part of the name of stuttering T— T-Tom--a--as-De-D'Ur-fey-fey. Cost studious cabalists more time. *A poet, who used to make verses ending with the last syllable of the names of those persons he praised: which Voiture turned against him in a poem of the same kind. H, Yet now, as then, you all declare, And turn strange hi'roglyphics there, Unless i' th' name of Tom D'Urfey. What if the Hebrew next should aim Would each hope to be O in Thomas; And all th' ambitious vowels vie, To have a place in Tom D'Urfey. Then well-belov'd and trusty letters! Et cat'ra, therefore, we decree, To the great name of Tom D'Urfey." PROLOGUE DESIGNED FOR MR. D'URFEY'S LAST PLAY: GROWN old in rhyme, 'twere barbarous to discard Your persevering, unexhausted bard; |