Was there a Chief but melted at the Sight?
A common Soldier, but who clubb’d his Mite?
Such, such emotions should in Britons rise,

9
When press’d by want and weakness Dennis lies;
Dennis, who long had warr’d with modern Huns,
Their Quibbles routed, and defy'd their Puns;
A desp’rate Bulwark, sturdy, firm, and fierce
Against the Gothic Sons of frozen verse :
How chang’d from him who made the boxes

groan, And shook the stage with Thunders all his own! Stood up to dash each vain PRETENDER’s hope, Maul the French Tyrant, or pull down the Pope! If there's a Briton then, true bred and born, 19 Who holds Dragoons and wooden shoes in scorn;

15

If there's a Critic of distinguish'd rage ;
If there's a Senior, who contemns this age ;
Let him to-night his just assistance lend,
And be the Critic's, Briton's, Old Man's Friend,

NOTE s. Ver. 21. If there's a critic of difinguish'd rage.] See Dun. ciad, Notes on v. 106. B. I.

M A CER:

A

CH A R A C T E R.

W

HEN fimple Macer, now of high renown,

First fought a Poet's Fortune in the Town, Twas all th’ Ambition his high foul could feel, To wear red Stockings, and to dine with Steel. Some Ends of verse his betters might afford, 5 And

gave the harmless fellow a good word. Set

up with these, he ventur'd on the Town, And with a borrow'd Play, out-did poor Crown. There he stop'd short, nor since has writ a tittle, But has the wit to make the most of little : Like stunted hide-bound Trees, that just have got Sufficient Sap at once to bear and rot. Now he begs Verse, and what he gets commends, Not of the Wits his foes, but Fools his friends.

14 Sosome coarse Country Wench, almost decay'd, Trudges to town, and first turns Chambermaid;

IO

Aukward and supple, each devoir to pay;
She flatters her good Lady twice a day;
Thought wond'rous honest, tho' of mean degree,
And strangely lik'd for her Simplicity: 20
In a translated Suit, then tries the Town,
With borrow'd Pins, and Patches not her own:
But just endur'd the winter she began,
And in four months a batter'd Harridan.

24 Now nothing left, but wither’d, pale, and shrunk, To bawd for others, and go shares with Punk.

To Mr. JOHN MOORE, AUTHOR of the celebrated Worm

POWDER

HOW

OW much, egregious Moore, are we,

Deceiv'd by shews and forms ! Whate'er we think, whate'er we fee,

All Humankind are Worms.

Man is a very Worm by birth;

Vile, Reptile, weak, and vain! A while he crawls

upon

the earth, Then Ihrinks to earth again.

That Woman is a Worm, we find

E’er since our Grandame's evil;
She first convers'd 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 fame,

Is aptly term'd a Glow-worm :