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TO MR. JOHN MOORE,
AUTHOR OF THE CELEBRATED WORM-POWDER.
HOW much, egregious Moore, are we
Deceiv'd by shows and forms!
Whate'er we think, whatever 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 shrinks to earth again.
That Woman is a worm, we find,
E'er since our Grandame's evil,
She first conversed with her own kind,
That ancient worm, the Devil.
The learn'd themselves we bookworms name,
The blockhead is a slowworm;
The nymph, whose tail is all on flame,
Is aptly termed a glowworm.
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 muckworms, silkworms beaus,
And deathwatches physicians.
