Three things another's modest wishes bound, My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound.

Pitholeon sends to me: "You know his grace ;
I want a patron: ask him for a place."
Pitholeon libell'd me-" But here's a letter
Informs you, sir, 'twas when he knew no better.
Dare you refuse him? Curll invites to dine,
He'll write a journal, or he'll turn divine."

Bless me! a packet.-" "Tis a stranger sues, A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse.'

If I dislike it," furies, death, and rage!"

If I

"Commend it to the stage."

approve, There (thank my stars), my whole commission ends, The players and I are luckily no friends.

Fir'd that the house reject him, "'Sdeath! I'll print it, And shame the fools-Your interest, sir, with Lintot." "Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much :" "Not, sir, if you revise it, and retouch."

All my demurs but double his attacks:

At last he whispers, "Do; and we go snacks."
Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door;
"Sir, let me see your works and you no more."

WORMS.

ALEXANDER POPE.1

OW much, egregious Moore, are we
Deceiv'd by shows and forms?
Whate'er we think, whate'er we see,
All human race are wormis.

Man is a very worm by birth,
Proud reptile, vile and vain,
Awhile he crawls upon the earth,
Then shrinks to earth again.

That woman is a worm, we find,
E'er since our grannum's evil;
She first convers'd with her own kind,
That ancient worm, the Devil.

The fops are painted butterflies,
That flutter for a day;

First from a worm they took their rise,
Then in a worm decay.

The flatterer an ear-wig grows,

Some worms suit all conditions ;

Misers are muck-worms; silk-worms, beaus,

And death-watches, physicians.

This poem was addressed "To the Ingenious Mr. Moore, Author of the Cele brated Worm-Powder."

Ah, Moore thy skill were well employ'd,
And greater gain would rise

If thou could'st make the courtier void
The worm that never dies.

Thou only canst our fate adjourn
Some few short years, no more;
E'en Button's wits to worms shall turn,
Who maggots were before.

THE SPLENDID SHILLING.

JOHN PHILIPS.

APPY the man who, void of cares and strife, In silken or in leathern purse retains A Splendid Shilling! he nor hears with pain New oysters cried, nor sighs for cheerful ale; But with his friends, when nightly mists arise, To Juniper's Magpie, or Town-Hall1 repairs ; Where, mindful of the nymph, whose wanton eye Transfix'd his soul, and kindled amorous flames, Chloe, or Phillis; he each circling glass Wisheth her health, and joy, and equal love. Meanwhile, he smokes, and laughs at merry tale Or pun ambiguous, or conundrum quaint: But I, whom griping penury surrounds, And hunger, sure attendant upon want, With scanty offals and small acid tiff (Wretched repast!) my meagre corpse sustain, Then solitary walk, or doze at home In garret vile, and with a warming puff Regale chill'd fingers, or from tube as black As winter-chimney or well-polish'd jet Exhale mundungus, ill perfuming scent! Not blacker tube, nor of a shorter size, Smokes Cambro-Briton (versed in pedigree, Sprung from Cadwallader and Arthur, kings

Two noted alehouses at Oxford in 1700.

hill and barren cliff,

L