« AnteriorContinua »
Thus, after four important Hours,
Celia's the Wonder of her Sex:
Could cause such marvellous Effects ?
Venus, indulgent to her Kind,
Gave Women all their Hearts could wish,
White-Lead and * Lufitanian Dish,
Love with white Lead cements his Wings ;
White Lead was sent us to repair
A Lady's Face, and China-Ware.
She ventures now to lift the Sash,
The Window is her proper Sphere :
Nor let the Beaux approach too near.
Take Pattern by your Sister Star ;
Delude at once, and bless our Sight ;
And chiefly chuse to shine by Night,
But, Art no longer can prevail,
When the Materials all are gone ;
Where nothing's left to work upon,
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,
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.
He walk'd the Streets, and wore a thread-bareCloak:
Where'er he went, he never saw his Betters ; Lords, Knights and Squires, were all his humble
He that cou'd once have half a Kingdom bought,
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 :
The E PITA PH.
BENEATH this verdant Hillock lies
ENE ATH this verdant Hillock lies
Demar the Wealthy and the Wise.
TO STELLA, who colleated and tran
fcribed bis Poems.
Written in the Year 1720.
S when a lofty Pile is rais'd,
We never hear the Workmen prais'd,