Imatges de pàgina
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See, at her Levee crowding Swains;
Whom Stella freely entertains.

With Breeding, Humour, Wit and Sense;
And puts them to fo fmall Expence :
Their Mind fo plentifully fills,
And makes fuch reasonable Bills
So little gets for what she gives,
We really wonder how fhe lives!
And had her Stock been lefs, no doubt,
She must have long ago run out.

THEN who can think we'll quit the Place,
When Doll hangs out a newer Face;
Or ftop and light at Cloe's Head,
With Scraps and Leavings to be fed.

THEN Cloe, ftill go on to prate
Of Thirty-fix and Thirty-eight:
Pursue your Trade of Scandal-picking,
Your Hints, that Stella is no Chicken:
Your Innuendo's, when you tell us,
That Stella loves to talk with Fellows:
And let me warn you to believe

A Truth, for which your Soul fhould grieve:
That should you live to fee the Day

When Stella's Locks must all be

grey:

When Age muft print a furrow'd Trace
On ev'ry Feature of her Face:
Though you, and all your fenfelefs Tribe,
Could Art, or Time, or Nature bribe,

Το

To make you look like Beauty's Queen,
And hold for ever at Fifteen:

No Bloom of Youth can ever blind
The Cracks and Wrinkles of your Mind:
All Men of Senfe will pass your Door,
And crowd to Stella's at Fourscore.

The Progrefs of POETRY.

Written in the Year 1720.

HE Farmer's Goose, who in the Stubble,

THH

Has fed without Restraint, or Trouble;

Grown fat with Corn and fitting ftill,
Can scarce get o'er the Barn-Door Sill:
And hardly waddles forth, to cool
Her Belly in the neighb'ring Pool:
Nor loudly cackles at the Door;
For Cackling fhews the Goose is poor.

BUT when the must be turn'd to graze,
And round the barren Common strays,
Hard Exercife, and harder Fare,

Soon make my Dame grow lank and fpare:
Her Body light, fhe tries her Wings,
And fcorns the Ground, and upward fprings,

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 roaft Beef his Belly full,
Grown lazy, foggy, fat, and dull:
Deep funk in Plenty, and Delight,
What Poet e'er could take his Flight?
Or ftuff'd with Phlegm up to the Throat,
What Poet e'er could fing a Note?
Nor Pegafus could bear the Load,
Along the high celestial Road:

The Steed, opprefs'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 ev'ry Thread it lets in Air:
With hungry Meals his Body pin'd,
His Guts and Belly full of Wind;
And, like a Jockey for a Race,
His Flesh brought down to flying Cafe
Now his exalted Spirit loaths

Incumbrances of Food and Cloaths;

And

And up he rifes like a Vapour,
Supported high on Wings of Paper;
He finging flies, and flying fings,
While from below all Grub-street rings.

The Progress of BEAUTY.

W

Written in the Year 1720.

HEN firft Diana leaves her Bed,
Vapours and Steams her Looks difgrace,

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 Vifage clears.

'Twixt earthly Females and the Moon, All Parallels exactly run;

If Celia fhould appear too soon,

Alas, the Nymph would be undone!

To fee her from her Pillow rife,

All reeking in a cloudy Steam;

Crack'd Lips, foul Teeth, and gummy Eyes;
Poor Strephon, how would he blafpheme!

Three

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Three Colours, Black, and Red, and White,
So graceful in their proper Place,
Remove them to a different Light,
They form a frightful hideous Face.

For Inftance, when the Lilly skips
Into the Precincts of the Rose,
And takes Poffeffion of the Lips
Leaving the Purple to the Nose.

So, Celia went entire to Bed,

All her Complexions fafe and found; But, when she rofe, White, Black, and Red, Tho' ftill in fight, had chang'd their Ground.

The Black, which would not be confin'd,
A more inferior Station feeks,

Leaving the fiery Red behind,

And mingles in her muddy Cheeks.

But Celia can with Eafe reduce,

By Help of Pencil, Paint, and Brush,
Each Colour to its Place and Ufe,
And teach her Cheeks again to blush.

She knows her early felf no more;
But fill'd with Admiration ftands,

As other Painters oft adore

The Workmanship of their own Hands.

Thus,

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