Imatges de pàgina
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Venus, indulgent to her Kind,

Gave Women all their Hearts could with,

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 seen, be feen from far; And chiefly chufe to shine by Night.

Bur

* 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 wife Logicians fay,

Cannot without a Form fubfift;

And Form, fay I as well as they,

Muft fail, if Matter brings no Grift.

And this is fair Diana's Cafe ;
For all Aftrologers maintain,

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

While Partrige wifely fhews the Caufe
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.

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But, let the Cause be what it will,

In half a Month she looks fo 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 fhews her Head
So rotting Celia ftroles the Street,
When fober Folks are all a-bed.

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.

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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!

If

Since Mortal Beauties drop fo foon, you would have us well supply'd,

Send us new Nymphs with each new Moon.

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AN

AN

ELEG Y

On the much lamented Death of Mr. Demar, the famous rich Ufurer, who died the Sixth of July, 1720.

K

Written in the Year 1720.

NOW all Men by these Prefents, Death

the Tamer

By Mortgage hath fecur'd the Corps of Demar;
Nor can four Hundred Thousand Sterling Pound,
Redeem him from his Prifon under Ground.
His Heirs might well, of all his Wealth possest,
Bestow to bury him one Iron Cheft,

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 fup'd at Charge of other Folk;

And

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 bo
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 him light.

upon

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 seize;

But

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