VERBATIM FROM BOILEAU.. ONCE UN JOUR DIT UN AUTEUR, &c. NCE (fays an Author, where I need not say) Before her each with clamour pleads the Laws, ANSWER to the following Question of Mrs. HowE. HAT IS PRUDERY? WHAT Seen with Wit and Beauty feldom. 'Tis a fear that starts at fhadows. 'Tis a Beldam, 'Tis (no, 'tis'nt) like Mifs Meadows. Occafioned Occafioned by fome Verfes of his Grace the Duke of BUCKINGHAM. USE, 'tis enough: at length thy labour ends, MUSE And thou shalt live, for Buckingham commends. Let Crowds of Critics now my verse assail, Let Dennis write, and nameless numbers rail: This more than pays whole years of thankless pain, Time, health, and fortune, are not lost in vain. Sheffield approves, confenting Phoebus bends, And I and Malice from this hour are friends. A PROLOGUÈ BY MR. POPE, To a Play for Mr. DENNIS'S Benefit, in 1733, when he was old, blind, and in great Distress, a little before his Death. A S when that Hero; who in each Campaign, Had brav'd the Goth, and many a Vandal flain, Lay Fortune-ftruck, a spectacle of Woe! Wept by each Friend, forgiv'n by every Foe: But pitied Belifarius old and blind? 5 Was there a Chief but melted at the Sight? A common Soldier, but who clubb'd his Mite? Such Such, fuch emotions should in Britons rife, ΤΟ How chang'd from him who made the boxes groan, 15 If there's a Senior, who contemns this age; And be the Critic's, Briton's, Old Man's Friend. 20 MACE R: A CHARACTER. HEN fimple Macer, now of high renown, WHEN 'Twas all th' Ambition his high foul could feel, There There he stopp'd short, nor fince has writ a tittle, 10 Now he begs Verse, and what he gets commends, Thought wondrous honeft, though of mean degree, In a tranflated 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. 20 Now nothing left, but wither'd, pale, and shrunk, 25 To bawd for others, and go fhares with Punk. Το To Mr. JOHN MOORE, AUTHOR of the celebrated WORM-POWDER. OW much, egregious Moore, are we Whate'er we think, whate'er we see, Man is a very Worm by birth, That Woman is a Worm, we find The learn'd themselves we Book-worms name, 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 fuit all conditions; Mifers are Muck-worms, Silk-worms Beaus, And Death-watches Physicians. That |