The BOOK-WORM. Thomas Parnell Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T42652 p. 554 K041605.000 Parnell, Thomas, 1679-1718. Poems on Several Occasions: Written by Dr. Thomas Parnell, Late Arch-Deacon of Clogher: and Published by Mr. Pope. London printed for B. Lintot 1722 [1721] pp. 134-140. [8],221,[3]p.; 8⁰.

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The BOOK-WORM . COME hither , Boy , we'll hunt to Day The Book-Worm , ravening Beast of Prey , Produc'd by Parent Earth , at odds ( As Fame reports it ) with the Gods . Him frantick Hunger wildly drives Against a thousand Authors Lives : Thro' all the Fields of Wit he flies ; Dreadful his Head with clust'ring Eyes , With Horns without , and Tusks within , And Scales to serve him for a Skin . Observe him nearly , lest he climb To wound the Bards of antient Time , Or down the Vale of Fancy go To tear some modern Wretch below : On ev'ry Corner fix thine Eye , Or ten to one he slips thee by . See where his Teeth a Passage eat : We'll rouse him from the deep Retreat . But who the Shelter's forc'd to give ? 'Tis Sacred Virgil as I live ! From Leaf to Leaf , from Song to Song , He draws the tadpole Form along , He mounts the gilded Edge before , He's up , he scuds the Cover o'er , He turns , he doubles , there he past , And here we have him , caught at last . Insatiate Brute , whose Teeth abuse The sweetest Servants of the Muse . ( Nay never offer to deny , I took thee in the Fact to fly . ) His Roses nipt in ev'ry Page , My poor Anacreon mourns thy Rage . By thee my Ovid wounded lies ; By thee my Lesbia's Sparrow dies : Thy rabid Teeth have half destroy'd The Work of Love in Biddy Floyd , They rent Belinda's Locks away , And spoil'd the Blouzelind of Gay . For all , for ev'ry single Deed , Relentless Justice bids thee bleed . Then fall a Victim to the Nine , My self the Priest , my Desk the Shrine . Bring Homer , Virgil , Tasso near , To pile a sacred Altar here ; Hold , Boy , thy Hand out-run thy Wit , You reach'd the Plays that D—s writ ; You reach'd me Ph—s rustick Strain ; Pray take your mortal Bards again . Come bind the Victim , — there he lies , And here between his num'rous Eyes This venerable Dust I lay , From Manuscripts just swept away . The Goblet in my Hand I take , ( For the Libation's yet to make ) A Health to Poets ! all their Days May they have Bread , as well as Praise ; Sense may they seek , and less engage In Papers fill'd with Party-Rage . But if their Riches spoil their Vein Ye Muses , make them poor again . Now bring the Weapon , yonder Blade , With which my tuneful Pens are made . I strike the Scales that arm thee round , And twice and thrice I print the Wound ; The sacred Altar floats with red , And now he dies , and now he's dead . How like the Son of Jove I stand , This Hydra stretch'd beneath my Hand ! Lay bare the Monster's Entrails here , To see what Dangers threat the Year : Ye Gods ! what Sonnets on a Wench ? What lean Translations out of French ? Tis plain , this Lobe is so unsound , S— prints , before the Months go round . But hold , before I close the Scene , The sacred Altar shou'd be clean . Oh had I Sh—ll's Second Bays , Or T— ! thy pert and humble Lays ! ( Ye Pair , forgive me , when I vow I never miss'd your Works till now ) I'd tear the Leaves to wipe the Shrine , ( That only way you please the Nine ) But since I chance to want these two , I'll make the Songs of D—y do . Rent from the Corps , on yonder Pin , I hang the Scales that brac't it in ; I hang my studious Morning Gown , And write my own Inscription down . ' This Trophy from the Python won , ' This Robe , in which the Deed was done , ' These , Parnell glorying in the Feat , ' Hung on these Shelves , the Muses Seat . ' Here Ignorance and Hunger found ' Large Realms of Wit to ravage round ; ' Here Ignorance and Hunger fell ; ' Two Foes in one I sent to Hell . ' Ye Poets , who my Labours see , ' Come share the Triumph all with me ! ' Ye Criticks ! born to vex the Muse , ' Go mourn the grand Ally you lose .