Imatges de pÓgina

Thus, after four important Hours,

Celia's the Wonder of her Sex:
Say, which among the heav'nly 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 * Lufitanian 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 raih,

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 chuse to shine by Night,

But, Art no longer can prevail,

When the Materials all are gone ;
The beft Mechanick Hand must fail,

Where nothing's left to work upon,


• Portugal.


Matter, as wise Logicians say,

Cannot without a Form subfift; And Form, fay I, as well as they,

Must fail, if Matter brings no Grist.

And this is fair Diana's Cafe ;

For all Astrologers maintain,
Each Night, a Bit drops off her Face,

When Mortals say she's in her Wane.

While Partrige wisely shews 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 found;

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 thews her Head : So rotting Celia ftroles the Street,

When sober Folks are all a-bed.

For, For, sure if this be Luna's Fate,

Poor Celia, but of mortal Race, In vain expects a longer Date

To the Materials of ber Face.

When Mercury her Tresses moves,

To think of black Lead-Combs is vain ; No Painting can restore a Nose,

Nor will her Teeth return again.

Ye Powors, who over Love preside!

Since mortal Beauties drop fo foon, If you

would have us well supply'd, Send us new Nymphs with each new Moon.

An EL EGY on the much lamented

Death of Mr. DEMAR, the famous rich Usurer, who died the Sixth of July, 1720.

Written in the Year 1720.


Now all Men by tbese Presents, Death the Tamer,

By Mortgage hath secur'd the Corps of Demar! Nor can four Hundred Thousand Sterling Pound Redeem him from his Prison under Ground. His Heirs might well, of all his Wealth poffeft, Bestow to bury him one Iron Chest. Pluto, the God of Wealth, will joy to know His faithful Steward, in the Shades below.


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He walk'd the Streets, and wore a thread-bareCloak:
He din'd and supp'd at Charge of other Folk;
And by his Looks, had he held out his Palms,
He might be thought an Object fit for Alms.
So, to the Poor if he refus'd his Pelf,
He us’d 'em full as kindly as himself.

Where'er he went, he never saw his Betters ; Lords, Knights and Squires, were all his humble

And under Hand and Seal, the Irish Nation
Were forc'd to own to him their Obligation.

He that cou'd once have half a Kingdom bought,
In half a Minute is not worth a Groat;
His Coffers from the Coffin could not save,
Nor all his Intrest keep him from the Grave, :
A golden Monument would not be right,
Because we wish the Earth


him light.

Oh London * Tavern! Thou hast lost a Friend, Tho' in thy Walls he ne'er did Farthing spend : He touch'd she Pence, when others touch'd the Pot; The Hand, that sign'd the Mortgage, paid the Shot.

OLD as he was, no vulgar known Disease On him could ever boast a Pow'r to seize ; But, as his Gold he weigh’d, grim Death in spight, Caft in his Dart, which made three Moydores light; And, as he saw his darling Money fail, Blew his last Breath to sink the lighter Scale.

HE, A Tavern in Dublin, where Mr. Demar kept his Office.

He, who so long was current, 'cwould be strange If he should now be cry'd down, since his Change.

The Sexton shall green Sods on thee bestow :
Alas the Sexton is thy Banker now!
A dismal Banker must that Banker be,
Who gives no Bills, but of Mortality.


BENEATH this verdant Hillock lies

ENE ATH this verdant Hillock lies

Demar the Wealthy and the Wise.
His Heirs, that he might safely rest,
Have put bis Carcass in a Chest :
The very Chest, in which, they say,
His other Self, bis Money, lay.
And if bis Heirs continue kind
To that dear Self be left behind,
I dare believe, that Four in Five,
Will think bis better Self alive.

TO STELLA, who colleated and tran

fcribed bis Poems.

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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 :


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