Imatges de pÓgina

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 Sash,

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 seen, be seen from far;

And chiefly chufe to shine by Night,


* Portugal

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,

Matter, as wise Logicians say,
Cannot without a Form fubfift;

: ; And Form, say I as well as they,

Must fail, if Matter brings no Grift.

And this is fair Diana's Case;

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 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 sound;

Or else, that Mercury's her Foe,

But, 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.

grows discreet,

Yet, as she wastes, she

'Till Midnight never shews her Head So rotting Celia stroles the Street,

When fober Folks are all a-bed.

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 Treffes mows,

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

Nor will her Teeth return again,

Yc Pow'rs, who over Love preside!

Since Mortal Beauties drop so soon,
If you would have us well supply'd,
Send us new Nymphs with each new Moon.




L GY 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 these 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 posseft, 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-bare Cloak; He din’d and sup'd at Charge of other Folk;


And by his Looks, had he held out his Palms,
He might be thought an Obje& 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 boi
In half a Minute is not worth a Groat;
His Coffers from the Coffin could not save,
Nor all his Inţrejt keep him from the Grave,
A golden Monument would not be right,
Because we wish the Earth upon him light.

Oh London Tavern! Thou hast 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 seize;

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