Which an aftrologer might use Either for almanacks or fhoes.
Thus Partridge by his wit and parts At once did practise both these arts : And as the boading owl (or rather The bat, because her wings are leather) Steals from her private cell by night, And flies about the candle-light; So learned Partridge could as well Creep in the dark from leathern cell, And in his fancy Ay as far
To peep upon a twinkling star.
Befides, he could confound the spheres, And fet the planets by the ears; To fhew his skill, he Mars could join To Venus in afpect malign;
Then call in Mercury for aid,
And cure the wounds that Venus made. Great scholars have in Lucian read,
When Philip king of Greece was dead, His foul and Spirit did divide,
And each part took a diff'rent fide: One rose a star; the other fell Beneath, and mended fhoes in hell.
Thus Partridge ftill fhines in each art, The cobling and far-gazing part, And is install'd as good a star As any of the Cæfars are.
Triumphant ftar! fome pity fhow On coblers militant below,
Whom roguish boys in ftormy nights Torment by piffing out their lights, Or thro' a chink convey their smoke Inclos'd artificers to choke.
Thou, high exalted in thy sphere, May'ft follow ftill thy calling there. To thee the Bull will lend his hide, By Phoebus newly tann'd and dry'd: For thee they Argo's hulk will tax, And scrape her pitchy fides for wax : Then Ariadne kindly lends
Her braided hair to make thee ends:
The point of Sagittarius' dart Turns to an awl by heav'nly art; And Vulcan, wheedled by his wife, Will forge for thee a paring-knife. For want of room by Virgo's fide, She'll strain a point, and fit * aftride, To take thee kindly in between; And then the figns will be thirteen.
*Tibi brachia contrahet ingens
HERE, five foot deep, lies on his back A cobler, ftarmonger, and quack; Who to the stars in pure good-will Does to his best look upward ftill. Weep, all you customers that use His pills, his almanacks, or shoes: And you that did your fortunes feek, Step to his grave but once a week: This earth, which bears his body's print, You'll find has fo much virtue in't, That I durft pawn my ears 'twill tell Whate'er concerns you full as well, In phyfick, ftolen goods, or love, As he himself could, when above.
* VERSES
To be prefix'd before BERNARD LINTO T's New Miscellany *.
OME Colinæus + praise, some Bleau †,
Others account them but fo fo;
Some Plantin + to the reft prefer, And fome esteem old Elzevir †;
*The Oxford and Cambridge mifcellany, 8vo.
+ Printers famous for have
ing publifhed fine editions of the Bible, and of the Greek and Roman clafficks.
Others with Aldus * wou'd befot us; I, for my part, admire Lintottus.--- His character's beyond compare, Like his own perfon, large and fair. They print their names in letters fmall, But LINTOT ftands in capital: Author and he with equal grace Appear, and ftare you in the face. Stephens prints heathen Greek, 'tis faid, Which fome can't conftrue, fome can't read :
But all that comes from Lintot's hand Ev'n Rawlinson might understand. Oft in an Aldus, or a Plantin,
A page is blotted, or leaf wanting: Of Lintot's books this can't be faid, All fair, and not fo much as read. Their copy coft 'em not a penny To Homer, Virgil, or to any; They ne'er gave fix pence for two lines To them, their heirs, or their affigns: But Lintet is at vaft expence,
And pays prodigious dear for---sense. Their books are ufeful but to few, A fcholar, or a wit or two:
Lintot's for gen'ral use are fit;
For fome folks read, but all folks fh---.
MR. JOHN MOORE,
Author of the celebrated Worm-Powder.
OW much, egregious Moore, are we Deceiv'd by fhews and forms!
What'eer we think, whate'er we see, All human-kind are worms.
Man is a very worm by birth, Vile, reptile, weak, and vain! A while he crawls upon the earth, Then fhrinks to earth again.
That woman is a worm, we find, E'er fince our grandame's evil; She first convers'd with her own kind, That ancient worm, the devil.
The learn'd themselves we book-worms
The blockhead is a flow-worm; The nymph, whose tail is all on flame, Is aptly term'd a glow-worm.
The fops are painted butterflies,
That flutter for a day;
First from a worm they take their rife,
And in a worm decay.
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