Imatges de pÓgina
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See, at her Levee crowding Swains
Whom Stella freely entertains.
W i Breeding, Humour, Wit and Sense;
Aud puts them to so small Expence :
Their Mind so plentifully fills,
And makes such reasonable Bills
So little gets for what she gives,
We really wonder how she lives !
And had her Stock been lefs, no doubt,
She must have long ago run out.

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

Then Cloe, still go on to prate
Of Thirty-six 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 should grieve :
That should

you

live to see the Day
When Stella's Locks must all be grey :
When Age must print a furrow'd Trace
On ev'ry Feature of her Face :
Though you, and all your senseless Tribe,
Could Art, or Time, or Nature bribe,

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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 Sense will pass your Door,
And crowd to Stella's at Fourscore.

The Progress of POETRY.

Written in the Year 1720.

TH

HE Farmer's Goose, who in the Stubble,

Has fed without Restraint, or Trouble ; Grown fat with Corn and fitting still, 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 shews the Goose is

poor:

But when she must be turn'd to graze,
And round the barren Common ftrays,
Hard Exercise, and harder Fare,
Soon make my Dame

lank and spare:
Her Body light, she tries her Wings,
And scorns the Ground, and upward springs,

grow

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 fwill,
Among his Brethren of the Quill;
With good roast 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 stuffd 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 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 rises like a Vapour,
Supported high on Wings of Paper ;
He singing flies, and flying fings,
While from below all Grub-street rings.

The Progress of BEAUTY.

Written in the Year 1720.

Wapolistan di sicales

her Looks disgrace

,

HEN first Diana leaves her Bed,

Vapours and Steams her Looks 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 blafpheme!

Three

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 Instance, 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 safe and found;
But, when she rose, White, Black, and Red,

Tho' still 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 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,

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