To the Virtuosi

Hail, curious Wights! to whom so fair The form of mortal flies is! Who deem those grubs beyond compare, Which common sense despises.

Whether o'er hill, morass, or mound, You make your sportsman sallies, Or that your prey, in gardens found, Is urg'd thro' walks and allies;

Yet in the fury of the chase No slope could e'er retard you, Bless'd if one fly repay the race, Or painted wing reward you.

Fierce as Camilla o'er the plain Pursu'd the glitt'ring stranger, Still ey'd the purple's pleasing stain, And knew not fear nor danger.

'Tis you dispense the fav'rite meat To Nature's filmy people, Know what conserves they chuse to eat, And what liqueurs to tipple.

And if her brood of insects dies, You sage assistance lend her; Can stoop to pimp for am'rous flies, And help 'em to engender.

'Tis you protect their pregnant hour; And, when the birth's at hand, Exerting your obstetric pow'r, Prevent a mothless land.

Yet, oh! howe'er your tow'ring view Above gross objects rises, Whate'er refinements you pursue, Hear what a friend advises:

A friend who, weigh'd with your's, must prize Domitian's idle passion, That wrought the death of teazing flies, But ne'er their propagation.

Let Flavia's eyes more deeply warm, Nor thus your hearts determine, To slight Dame Nature's fairest form And sigh for Nature's vermine.

And speak with some respect of beaus, Nor more as triflers treat 'em; 'Tis better learn to save one's clothes Than cherish moths that eat 'em.