The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 17/To Mr. John Moore, Author of the Celebrated Worm Powder
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.
That statesmen have the worm, is seen
By 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 void
The worm that never dies!
O learned friend of Abchurch lane,
Who sett'st our entrails free!
Vain is thy art, thy powder vain,
Since worms shall eat ev'n thee!
Our fate thou only canst adjourn
Some few short years, no more!
Ev'n Button's[1] wits to worms shall turn,
Who maggots were before.
- ↑ Button's coffeehouse, in Covent garden, frequented by the wits of that time.