Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 17.djvu/408

402 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 M! 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 wits to worms shall turn, Who maggots were before.

JOVE call'd before him t' other day The vowels, U, O, I, E, A; All diphthongs, and all consonants, Either of England, or of France; And all that were, or wish'd to be, Rank'd in the name of Tom D'Urfy. Fierce