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 Cáckling shews the Goose is poor.

But when the must be turn'd to graze,
Ånd round the barren Common strays,
Hard Exercise, and harder Fare;
Soon make my Dame grow lank and spare ;
Her Body light, she tries her Wings,
And scorns the Ground, and upward springs,
VOL. II.
K

While

While all the Parish, as the flies,
Hear 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 swill, Among his Brethren of the Quill: With good roast Beef his Belly full

, Grown lazy, foggy, fat, and dull: Deep sunk in Plenty, and Delight, What Poet e'er could take his Flight? Or stuff’d 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 Year's 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 Racë,
His Flesh brought down to flying Cafe:
Now his exalted Spirit loaths
Incumbrances of Food and Cloachs ;
And

up

he rises like a Vapour,
Supported high on Wings of Paper;
He singing flies; and flying sings,
While from below all Grub-street rings

Τ Η Ε

Progress of BEAUTY

Written in the YEAR 1720.

W

HÉN first Diana leaves her Bed,

Vapours and Steams her Looks disgrace, A frowzy dirty-colour'd Red Sits on her cloudy wrinkled Face; K 2

Buc, 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 exa&ly run;
If Celia should appear too soon,

Alas, the Nymph would be undone!

a

To see her from her Pillow rise,

All reeking in a cloudy Steam; Crack'd Lips, foul Teeth, and

Poor Strephon, how would he blaspheme !

gummy Eyes;

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, So, Celia went entire to Bed,

All her Complexions safe and found; But, when she rose, White, Black, and Red, .;

Tho' still in sight, had changʻd their Ground.

The Black, which would not be confin’d,

A more inferior Station seeks, 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 filld with Admiration stands, As other Painters oft adore

The Workmanship of their own Hands.

Thus, after four important Hours,

Celia's the Wonder of her Sex:
Say, which among the heav'nly Powers

Could cause such marvellous Effects?