'Tis true fhe dress'd with modern grace, Half naked at a ball or race;
But when at home, at board or bed, Five greafy night-caps wrap'd her head. Could fo much beauty condescend To be a dull domeftic friend? Could any curtain lectures bring To decency fo fine a thing?
In fhort, by night, 'twas fits or fretting; By day, 'twas gadding or coquetting. Fond to be feen, she kept a bevy Of powder'd coxcombs at her levy; The 'fquire and captain took their stations, And twenty other near relations;
Jack fuck'd his pipe, and often broke A figh in fuffocating smoke;
While all their hours were pass'd between Infulting repartee or spleen.
Thus as her faults each day were known, He thinks her features coarfer grown ; He fancies every vice she shews,
Or thins her lip, or points her nofe:
Whenever rage or envy rise,
How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes!
He knows not how, but fo it is,
Her face is grown a knowing phyz;
And, though her fops are wond'rous civil, He thinks her ugly as the devil.
Now, to perplex the ravell'd nooze, As each a different way purfues, While fullen or loquacious ftrife Promised to hold them on for life, That dire disease, whofe ruthless power Withers the beauty's tranfient flower: Lo! the small pox, whofe horrid glare Levell❜d its terrors at the fair; And, rifling every youthful grace, Left but the remnant of a face.
The glafs, grown hateful to her fight, Reflected now a perfect fright:
Each former art fhe vainly tries To bring back luftre to her eyes. In vain fhe tries her paste and creams, To smooth her skin, or hide its feams; Her country beaux and city cousins, Lovers no more, flew off by dozens: The 'fquire himself was feen to yield, And ev❜n the captain quit the field.
Poor madam now condemn'd to hack The reft of life with anxious Jack, Perceiving others fairly flown, Attempted pleafing him alone. Jack foon was dazzled to behold Her prefent face furpafs the old; With modesty her cheeks are dy'd, Humility difplaces pride;
For taudry finery is feen
A Perfon ever neatly clean : No more prefuming on her fway, She learns good-nature every day; Serenely gay, and ftri&t in duty, Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty.
ONG had I fought in vain to find A likeness for the fcribbling kind; The modern fcribbling kind, who write, In wit, and fenfe, and nature's spite: 'Till reading, I forget what day on, A chapter out of Took's Pantheon, I think I met with fomething there, To fuit my purpose to a hair; But let us not proceed too furious, First please to turn to God Mercurius; You'll find him pictur'd at full length In book the second, page the tenth : The stress of all my proofs on him I lay, And now proceed we to our fimile.
Imprimis, pray obferve his hat, Wings upon either fide-mark that.
Well! what is it from thence we gather? Why these denote a brain of feather. A brain of feather! very right, With wit that's flighty, learning light; Such as to modern bard's decreed; A juft comparison,-proceed.
In the next place, his feet peruse, Wings grow again from both his fhoes; Defign'd, no doubt, their part to bear, And waft his godship through the air; And here my fimile unites, For in modern poet's flights, I'm fure it may be justly said, His feet are useful as his head.
Laftly, vouchsafe t'observe his hand, Fill'd with a fnake-incircled wand; By claffick authors, term'd caduceus, And highly fam'd for feveral uses. To wit-moft wond'roufly endu'd, No poppy water half fo good; For let folks only get a touch, Its foporific virtue's fuch,
Though ne'er fo much awake before, That quickly they begin to fnore. Add too, what certain writers tell, With this he drives mens fouls to hell.
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