Imatges de pàgina
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Thus, after four important Hours,

Celia's the Wonder of her Sex:

Say, which among the heav'nly Powers
Could caufe fuch 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 fent us to repair
Two brightest, brittleft, earthly Things,
A Lady's Face, and China-Ware.

She ventures now to lift the Safh,
The Window is her proper Sphere:
Ah, lovely Nymph! be not too rash,
Nor let the Beaux approach too near.

Take Pattern by your Sifter Star;

Delude at once, and bless our Sight;
When you are feen, be feen from far;
And chiefly chufe to fhine by Night,

But, Art no longer can prevail,

When the Materials all are gone;
The best Mechanick Hand must fail,
Where nothing's left to work upon,

* Portugal.

Matter,

Matter, as wife Logicians fay,

Cannot without a Form fubfift;
And Form, fay I, as well as they,
Must fail, if Matter brings no Grist.

And this is fair Diana's Cafe ;

For all Aftrologers maintain,

Each Night, a Bit drops off her Face,
When Mortals fay fhe's in her Wane.

While Partrige wifely fhews the Cause
Efficient, of the Moon's Decay,
That Cancer with his pois'nous 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 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,
'Till Midnight never fhews her Head:
So rotting Celia ftroles the Street,
When fober Folks are all a-bed.

For,

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For, fure if this be Luna's Fate,
Poor Celia, but of mortal Race,
In vain expects a longer Date

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!
Since mortal Beauties drop fo foon,
If you would have us well supply'd,
Send us new Nymphs with each new Moon.

An ELEGY on the much lamented
Death of Mr. DEMAR, the famous
rich Ufurer, who died the Sixth of
July, 1720.

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
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

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 faw his Betters; Lords, Knights and Squires, were all his humble. Debtors;

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 fave,
Nor all his Int'reft keep him from the Grave,
A golden Monument would not be right,
Because we wish the Earth upon him light.

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
On him could ever boast a Pow'r to feize;

But, as his Gold he weigh'd, grim Death in spight,
Caft in his Dart, which made three Moydores light;
And, as he faw his darling Money fail,
Blew his last Breath to fink the lighter Scale..

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:
Alas the Sexton is thy Banker now!

A difmal Banker muft that Banker be,
Who gives no Bills, but of Mortality.

BEN

The EPITAPH.

ENEATH this verdant Hillock lies
Demar the Wealthy and the Wife.
His Heirs, that he might safely rest,
Have put his Carcass in a Cheft:
The very Cheft, in which, they fay,
His other Self, bis Money, lay.
And if his Heirs continue kind
To that dear Self be left behind,
I dare believe, that Four in Five,
Will think his better Self alive.

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,

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