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But still the worst remain'd behind,
That very face had robb'd her mind.

Skill'd in no other arts was she, But dressing, patching, repartee; And, just as humour rose or fell, By turns a slattern or a belle;

"Tis true she dress'd with modern grace,
Half naked at a ball or race;

But when at home, at board or bed,
Five greasy nightcaps wrapp'd her head.
Could so much beauty condescend
To be a dull domestic friend?
Could any curtain lectures bring
To decency so fine a thing?

In short, by night, 'twas fits or fretting;
By day, 'twas gadding or coquetting.
Fond to be seen, she kept a bevyd
Of powder'd coxcombs at her levy;
The 'squire and captain took their stations,
And twenty other near relations;

Jack suck'd his pipe, and often broke

A sigh in suffocating smoke;

e

While all their hours were pass'd' between Insulting repartee or spleen.

VARIATIONS.

d Now tawdry madam kept a bevy.'
e She in her turn became perplexing,
And found substantial bliss in vexing.
f Thus every hour was pass'd.

Thus as her faults each day were known,"

He thinks her features coarser grown;
He fancies every vice she shows,

Or thins her lip, or points her nose:
Whenever rage or envy rise,

How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes!
He knows not how, but so it is,

Her face is grown a knowing phiz;
And, though her fops are wondrous civil,
He thinks her ugly as the devil.

Now, to perplex the ravel'd noose,
As each a different way pursues,
While sullen or loquacious strife
Promis'd to hold them on for life,
That dire disease, whose ruthless power
Withers the beauty's transient flower:
Lo! the smallpox, whose horrid glare
Level'd its terrors at the fair;
And, rifling every youthful grace,
Left but the remnant of a face.

The glass, grown hateful to her sight, Reflected now a perfect fright:

Each former art she vainly tries

To bring back lustre to her eyes.

VARIATIONS.

Each day the more her faults were known.

h Thus.

In vain she tries her paste1 and creams, To smooth her skin, or hide its seams; Her country beaux and city cousins. Lovers no more, flew off by dozens: The 'squire himself was seen to yield, And e'en the captain quit the field.

Poor madam now condemn'd to hack
The rest of life with anxious Jack,
Perceiving others fairly flown,
Attempted pleasing him alone.
Jack soon was dazzled to behold
Her present face surpass the old;
With modesty her cheeks are dyed,
Humility displaces pride;

For tawdry finery is seen
A person ever neatly clean;
No more presuming on her sway,
She learns goodnature every day;
Serenely gay, and strict in duty,
Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty.

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THE GIFT.

TO IRIS, IN BOW STREET, COVENT GARden.1

SAY, cruel Iris, pretty rake,
Dear mercenary beauty,

What annual offering shall I make
Expressive of my duty?

My heart, a victim to thine eyes,
Should I at once deliver,
Say, would the angry fair one prize
The gift who slights the giver?

A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,
My rivals give and let 'em.

If gems or gold impart a joy,

I'll give them—when I get 'em.

I'll give but not the full blown rose,
Or rosebud, more in fashion;
Such short liv'd offerings but disclose
A transitory passion.

1 See The Bee, p. 50.

I'll give thee something yet unpaid,
Not less sincere than civil;

I'll give thee-ah! too charming maid,
I'll give thee to the devil.2

? This poem is taken from Menagiana, vol. iv.

ETRENE A IRIS.

'Pour témoignage de ma flamme,
Iris, du meilleur de mon âme

Je vous donne à ce nouvel an
Non pas dentelle, ni ruban,
Non pas essence, ni pommade,
Quelques boites de marmalade,
Un mouchoir, des gans, un bouquet,
Non pas heures, ni chapelet,
Quoi donc attendez, je vous donne
O fille plus belle que bonne,
Qui m'avez toujours refusé,
Le point si souvent proposé,

Je vous donne. Ah! le puis-je dire?
Oui c'est trop souffrir le martyre,
Il est temps de m'émanciper,
Patience va m'échapper.

Fussiez-vous cent fois plus aimable,

Belle Iris, je vous donne ... au diable.'

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