1 Thus, after four important Hours, Celia's the Wonder of her Sex: Say, which among the heav'nly Powers Venus, indulgent to her Kind, Gave Women all their Hearts could wish, Love with white Lead cements his Wings; She ventures now to lift the Safh, Take Pattern by your Sifter Star; Delude at once, and bless our Sight; But, Art no longer can prevail, When the Materials all are gone; * Portugal. Matter, Matter, as wife Logicians fay, Cannot without a Form fubfift; And this is fair Diana's Cafe ; For all Aftrologers maintain, Each Night, a Bit drops off her Face, While Partrige wifely fhews the Cause But Gadbury, in Art profound, From her pale Cheeks pretends to show, That Swain Endymion is not found ; Or elfe, 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 fhe waftes, fhe grows difcreet, For, For, fure if this be Luna's Fate, To the Materials of her Face. When Mercury her Treffes moves, To think of black Lead-Combs is vain; No Painting can restore a Nose, Nor will her Teeth return again. Ye Pow'rs, who over Love prefide! An ELEGY on the much lamented Written in the Year 1720. Now all Men by thefe Prefents, Death the Tamer, K by Mortgage hath fecur d the Corps of Demar Nor can four Hundred Thousand Sterling Pound He He walk'd the Streets, and wore a thread-bareCloak: He us❜d 'em full as kindly as himself. WHERE'ER he went, he never faw his Betters; Lords, Knights and Squires, were all his humble. Debtors; And under Hand and Seal, the Irish Nation He that cou'd once have half a Kingdom bought, OH London * Tavern! Thou haft loft a Friend, Tho' in thy Walls he ne'er did Farthing spend : He touch'd the Pence, when others touch'd the Pot; The Hand, that fign'd the Mortgage, paid the Shot. OLD as he was, no vulgar known Disease But, as his Gold he weigh'd, grim Death in spight, HE, A Tavern in Dublin, where Mr. Demar kept his Office. HE, who so long was current, 'twould be strange If he should now be cry'd down, fince his Change. THE Sexton fhall green Sods on thee bestow: A difmal Banker muft that Banker be, BEN The EPITAPH. ENEATH this verdant Hillock lies To STELLA, who collected and tranfcribed his POEMs. A Written in the Year 1720. S when a lofty Pile is rais'd, We never hear the Workmen prais'd, Who bring the Lime, or place the Stones, But all admire Inigo Jones: So, |