THE

Progress of POETRY.

T

Written in the Year 1720.

HE Farmer's Goose, who in the Stubble,

Has fed without Restraint, or Trouble;

Grown fat with Corn and fitting ftill,
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 Cackling fhews the Goofe is poor.

But when she must be turn'd to graze, And round the barren Common strays, Hard Exercife, and harder Fare,

Soon make my Dame grow lank and spare:

Her Body light, fhe tries her Wings,

And scorns the Ground, and upward fprings,

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 roaft Beef his Belly full,
Grown lazy, foggy, fat, and dull:
Deep funk in Plenty, and Delight,
What Poet e'er could take his Flight?

Or ftuff'd with Phlegm up to the Throat,
What Poet e'er could fing 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 Race,

His Flesh brought down to flying Cafe
Now his exalted Spirit loaths

And

Incumbrances of Food and Cloaths;
up he rifes like a Vapour,
Supported high on Wings of Paper;
He finging flies, and flying fings,
While from below all Grub-treet rings,

THE

Progress of BEAUTY,

W

Written in the YEAR 1720.

HEN firft Diana leaves her Bed,

Vapours and Steams her Looks difgrace

A frowzy dirty-colour'd Red

Sits on her cloudy wrinkled Face;

K 2

Busi

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 fhould appear too foon,

Alas, the Nymph would be undone!

To fee her from her Pillow rife,
All reeking in a cloudy Steam;

Crack'd Lips, foul Teeth, and gummy Eyes;
Poor Strephon, how would he blafpheme!

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 Inftance, when the Lilly skips
Into the Precincts of the Rofe,
And takes Poffeffion of the Lips,
Leaving the Purple to the Nofe.

So,

So, Celia went entire to Bed,

All her Complexions fafe and found;

But, when the rose, White, Black, and Red,. Tho' still in fight, had chang'd their Ground.

The Black, which would not be confin'd,
A more inferior Station feeks,

Leaving the fiery Red behind,
And mingles in her muddy Cheeks.

But Celia can with Eafe reduce,

By Help of Pencil, Paint, and Brush, Each Colour to its Place and Ufe,

And teach her Cheeks again to blush.

She knows her early felf no more;
But fill'd with Admiration ftands,

As other Painters oft adore

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