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,
That flutter for a day;
First from a worm they take their rise,
And in a worm decay.
The flatterer an earwig grows;
Thus worms suit all conditions;
Misers are muck-worms, silk-worms beaus,
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.
* Button's coffeehouse, in Covent-Garden, frequented by the wits of that time.-H.
OCCASIONED BY AN &C. AT THE END OF MR D'URFEY'S NAME, IN THE TITLE TO ONE OF HIS PLAYS.*
[Poor Tom D'Urfey, who stood the force of so much wit, was a play-wright and song-writer. He appears to have been an inoffensive, good-humoured, thoughtless character, and was endured and laughed at by Dryden, by Steele, who recommended his benefit-nights to the attention of the public, through the medium of the Tatler and Guardian, and at length by Pope, who, as appears from the next article, in a spirit betwixt contempt and charity, wrote a prologue for his last play.]
JOVE call'd before him t'other day
The vowels, U, O, I, E, A;
All dipthongs, and all consonants,
Either of England, or of France:
And all that were, or wish'd to be,
Rank'd in the name of Tom D'Urfey,
Fierce in this cause the letters spoke all.
Liquids grew rough, and mutes turn'd vocal.
Those four proud syllables alone
Were silent, which by Fate's decree
Chim'd in so smoothly, one by one,
To the sweet name of Tom D'Urfey.
N, by whom names subsist, declar'd,
To have no place in this 'twas hard:
*This accident happened by Mr D'Urfey's having made a flourish there, which the printer mistook for an &c.—H.
And Q maintain'd 'twas but his due
Still to keep company with U;
So hop'd to stand no less than he
In the great name of Tom D'Urfey.
E show'd a Comma ne'er could claim
A place in any British name;
Yet, making here a perfect botch,
Thrusts your poor novel 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.
P protested, puff'd and swore,
He'd not be serv'd so like a beast;
He was a piece of emperor,
And made up half a pope at least.
C vow'd, he'd frankly have releas'd
His double share in Casar Caius
For only one in Tom Durfeius,
I, consonant and vowel too,
To Jupiter did humbly sue,
That of his grace he would proclaim
Durfeius his true Latin name:
For though, without them both, 'twas clear
Himself could ne'er be Jupiter;
Yet they'd resign that post so high,
To be the genitive, Durfei,
B and L swore b- and w-s!
X and Z cried, p-x and z-s!
G swore, by G-d, it ne'er should be;
And W would not lose, not he,
An English letter's property
In the great name of Tom D'Urfey.
In short, the rest were all in fray,
From Christ cross to et cætera.
They, tho' but standers by, too mutter'd;
Diphthongs and tripthongs 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.
Then Jove thus spake: "With care and pain
We form'd this name, renown'd in rhyme:
Not thine, immortal Neusgermain ! *
Cost studious cabalists more time.
Yet now, as then, you all declare,
Far hence to Egypt you'll repair,
And turn strange hi'roglyphics there,
Rather than letters longer be,
Unless i' th' name of Tom D'Urfey.
Were you all pleas'd, yet what, I pray,
To foreign letters could I say?
What if the Hebrew next should aim
To turn quite backward D'Urfey's name?
Should the Greek quarrel too, by Styx, I
Could never bring in Psi and Xi:
Omicron and Omega from us
Would each hope to be O in Thomas;
And all th' ambitious vowels vie,
No less than Pythagoric Y,
To have a place in Tom D'Urfey.
Then well-belov'd and trusty letters!
Cons'nants, and vowels much their betters,
We, willing to repair this breach,
And, all that in us lies, please each,
Et cæt'ra to our aid must call;
Et cæt'ra represents ye
Et cæt'ra, therefore, we decree,
Henceforth for ever join'd shall be
To the great name of Tom D'Urfey."
* A poet, who used to make verses ending with the last syllables of the names of those persons he praised: which Voiture turned against him in a poem of the same kind.—H.
DESIGNED FOR MR D'URFEY'S LAST PLAY.
GROWN old in rhyme, 'twere barbarous to discard
Your persevering, unexhausted bard;
Damnation follows death in other men,
But
your damn'd poet lives, and writes again.
Th' adventurous lover is successful still,
Who strives to please the fair against her will:
Be kind, and make him in his wishes easy,
Who in your own despite has strove to please ye.
He scorn'd to borrow from the wits of yore,
But ever writ, as none e'er writ before.
You modern wits, should each man bring his claim,
Have desperate debentures on your fame;
And little would be left you, I'm afraid,
If all
your debts to Greece and Rome were paid.
From this deep fund our author largely draws,
Nor sinks his credit lower than it was.
Tho' plays for honour in old time he made,
'Tis now for better reasons-to be paid.
Believe him, he has known the world too long,
And seen the death of much immortal song.
He says, poor poets lost, while players won,
As pimps grow rich, while gallants are undone.
Tho' Tom the poet writ with ease and pleasure,
The comic Tom abounds in other treasure.
Fame is at best an unperforming cheat;
But 'tis substantial happiness, to EAT.
Let ease, his last request, be of your giving,
Nor force him to be damn'd to get his living.
|