To Mr John Moore, Author of the Celebrated Worm-Powder
How much, egregious Moore, are weDeceived by shows and forms!Whate'er we think, whate'er we see,All humankind are worms.
Man is a very worm by birth,Vile reptile, weak and vain!A while he crawls upon the earth,Then shrinks to earth again.
That woman is a worm, we findE'er since our grandame's evil;She first conversed with her own kind,That ancient worm, the Devil.
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 beaux.And death-watches, physicians.
That statesmen have the worm, is seenBy 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 voidThe worm that never dies!
O learnèd friend of Abchurch Lane,Who sett'st our entrails free!Vain is thy art, thy powder vain,Since worms shall eat even thee.
Our fate thou only canst adjournSome few short years--no more;Even Button's Wits to worms shall turn,Who maggots were before.
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