To TIMOTHY TICKLE, Esq

Hold, hold, friend TIM, attend to me, I'll treat you with a Simile.

HAVE you not seen in Summer Morning, When Sol (the Fields and Woods adorning,) Shews from the East his decent Face, Like Delia's deck'd with blushing Grace, How Worm's that dwell some Dunghill deep in, Will into Light be boldly creeping; (Creatures that deal in the profound, And never rise above the Ground,) In the warm Sunshine crawl and play, Or round the lowest floweret stray? Stoop down, and raise them from the Plain, They'll twist and creep to Dirt again; Sever the grovelling Things,—you'll wonder To see them crawl, tho' cut asunder: Squeeze close your Hand,—you'll fret to find That nothing's lest but Dirt behind.

Say then, shall Man exert his Power On such frail Creatures of an Hour; Such little, lowly lifeless Things, Who boast of neither Teeth nor Stings?

No,—let the humble Vermin toil Untroubled, in their native Soil; They'll crawl perhaps an Hour,—and then Sneak harmless to their Holes again.