THE

PROGRESS OF POETRY.

1720.

THE farmer's goose, who in the stubble
Has fed without restraint or trouble,
Grown fat with corn, and sitting still,
Can scarce get o'er the barn-door sill,
And hardly waddles forth to cool
Her belly in the neighbouring pool,
Nor loudly cackles at the door,
For cackling shows the goose is poor.

But when she must be turn'd to graze,
And round the barren common strays,
Hard exercise and harder fare

Soon make my dame grow lank and spare Her body light, she tries her wings,

And scorns the ground, and upward springs,
While all the parish, as she flies,

Hears sounds harmonious from the skies.
Such is the poet, fresh in pay,
(The third night's profits of his play)
His morning draughts till noon can swill
Among his brethren of the quill;
With good roast beef his belly full,
Grown lazy, foggy, fat, and dull,
Deep sunk in plenty and delight,
What poet e'er could take his flight?
Or, stuff'd with phlegm up to the throat,
What poet e'er could sing a note?

Nor Pegasus could bear the load

Along the high celestial road;

The steed, oppress'd, would break his girth
To raise the lumber from the earth,
But view him in another scene,
When all his drink is Hippocrene,
His money spent, his patrons fail,
His credit out for cheese and ale,
His two-years' coat so smooth and bare,
Through every thread it lets in air,
With hungry meals his body pined,
His guts and belly full of wind,
And, like a jockey for a race,
His flesh brought down to flying case;
Now his exalted spirit loathes
Incumbrances of food and clothes,
he rises like a vapour

And up

Supported high on wings of paper;
He singing flies, and flying sings,
While from below all Grub-street rings,

THE

PROGRESS OF BEAUTY.

1720.

WHEN first Diana leaves her bed, Vapours and steams her look disgrace,

A frowzy dirty-colour'd red

Sits on her cloudy wrinkled face;

But by degrees, when mounted high,
Her artificial face appears

Down from her window in the sky,

Her spots are gone, her visage clears.

'Twixt earthly females and the moon
All parallels exactly run:
If Celia should appear too soon,
Alas! the nymph would be undone !

To see her from her pillow rise,

All reeking in a cloudy steam,

Crack'd lips, foul teeth, and gummy eyes,

Poor Strephon! how would he blaspheme!

Three colours, black, and red, and white,
So graceful in their proper place;
Remove them to a different site,
They form a frightful hideous face.

For instance, when the lily skips
Into the precincts of the rose,
And takes possession of the lips,
Leaving the purple to the nose.

So Celia went entire to bed,

All her complexion safe and sound;

But when she rose, white, black, and red,

Though still in sight, had changed their ground.

The black, which would not be confin'd,

A more inferior station seeks,

Leaving the fiery red behind,

And mingles in her muddy cheeks.

But Celia can with ease reduce,

By help of pencil, paint, and brush, Each colour to its place and use,

And teach her cheeks again to blush.

She knows her early self no more;
But, fill'd with admiration, stands,
As other painters oft adore

The workmanship of their own hands.

Thus, after four important hours,
Celia's the wonder of her sex:
Say which among the heavenly powers
Could cause such marvellous effects?

Venus, indulgent to her kind,

Gave women all their hearts could wish, When first she taught them where to find White lead and Lusitanian dish.

Love with white-lead cements his wings:
White lead was sent us to repair
Two brightest, brittlest, earthly things,
A lady's face and China ware.

She ventures now to lift the sash;
The window is her proper sphere:
Ah! lovely Nymph! be not too rash,
Nor let the beaux approach too near.

Take pattern by your sister star;

Delude at once and bless our sight; When you are seen, be seen from far,

And chiefly choose to shine by night.

But art no longer can prevail,

When the materials all are gone; The best mechanic hand must fail, Where nothing's left to work upon.

Matter, as wise logicians say,

Cannot without a form subsist; And form, say I, as well as they, Must fail, if matter brings no grist.

And this is fair Diana's case;
For all astrologers maintain,

Each night a bit drops off her face,
When mortals say she's in her wane.

While Partridge wisely shows the cause
Efficient of the moon's decay,
That Cancer with his poisonous claws
Attacks her in the Milky-way:

But Gadbury, in art profound,

From her pale cheeks pretends to show That swain Endymion is not sound, Or else that Mercury's her foe.

But let the cause be what it will,
In half a month she looks so thin,
That Flamstead can, with all his skill,
See but her forehead and her chin.

Yet as she wastes she

grows discreet, Till midnight never shows her head;

So rotting Celia strolls the street

When sober folks are all a-bed.