THE LADY'S DRESSING-ROOM*.
Written in the year 1730.
FIVE hours (and who can do it less in?)
By haughty Celia spent in dressing,
The goddess from her chamber issues,
Array'd in lace, brocades, and tissues.
Strephon, who found the room was void,
And Betty otherwise employ'd,
Stole in, and took a strict survey
Of all the litter as it lay;
Whereof, to make the matter clear,
An inventory follows here.
And, first, a dirty smock appear'd,
Beneath the arm-pits well besmear'd;
* No charge has been more frequently brought against the Dean, or indeed more generally admitted, than that of coarse indelicacy, of which this Poem is always produced as an instance. Here, then, it is but justice to remark, that whenever he offends against delicacy he teaches it; he stimulates the mind to sensibility, to correct the faults of habitual negligence; as physicians, to cure a lethargy, have recourse to a blister. And though it may reasonably be supposed that few English ladies leave such a Dressing-room as Celia's, yet many may have given sufficient cause for reminding them, that very soon after desire has been gratified, the utmost delicacy becomes ne cessary to prevent disgust. Hawkes.
Strephon the rogue, display'd it wide,
And turn'd it round on ev'ry side.
In such a case few words are best,
And Strephon bids us guess the rest;
But swears how damnably the men lie
In calling Celia sweet and cleanly.
Now listen, while he next produces
The various combs for various uses,
Fill'd up with dirt so closely fixt,
No brush could force a way betwixt ;
A paste of composition rare,
Sweat, dandriff, powder, lead, and hair.
A forehead-cloth, with oil upon't,
To smooth the wrinkles on her front.
Here alum-flour, to stop the steams
Exhal'd from sour unsav'ry streams;
There night-gloves made of Tripsey's hide,
Bequeath'd by Tripsey when she dy'd;
Hard by a filthy bason stands,
Foul'd with the scourging of her hands;
The bason takes whatever comes,
The scrapings from her teeth and gums:
A nasty compound of all hues,
For here she spits and here she spues.
But, oh! it turn'd poor Strephon's bowels,
When he beheld and smelt the towels,
Begumm'd, bematter'd, and beslim'd
With dirt, and sweat, and ear-wax,
No object Strephon's eyes escapes ;
Here petticoats in frouzy heaps :
Nor be the handkerchiefs forgot,
All varnish'd o'er with snuff and snot.
The stockings why should I expose,
Stain'd with the moisture of her toes?
Or greasy coifs, or pinners reeking,
Which Celia slept at least a week in ?
A pair of tweezers next he found,
To pluck her brows in arches round,
Or hairs that sink the forehead low,
Or on her chin like bristles grow.
The virtues we must not let pass
Of Celia's magnifying glass :
When frighted Strephon cast his eye on't,
It shew'd the visage of a giant;
To squeeze it out from head to tail
For catch it nicely by the head,
A glass that can to sight disclose
The smallest.worm in Celia's nose,
And faithfully direct her nail
It must come out alive or dead.
Why, Strephon, will you tell the rest? And must you needs describe the chest? That careless wench! no creature warn her To move it out from yonder corner,
But leave it standing full in sight,
For you to exercise your spight?
In vain the workman shew'd his wit,
With rings and hinges counterfeit,
To make it seem, in this disguise,
A cabinet to vulgar eyes,
Which Strephon ventur'd to look in,
Resolv'd to go thro' thick and thin:
He lifts the lid; there needs no more;
He smelt it all the time before.
As from within Pandora's box,
When Epimetheus op'd the locks,
A sudden universal crew
Of human evils upward flew,
He still was comforted to find
That Hope at last remain'd behind ;
So Strephon lifting up the lid,
To view what in the chest was hid,
The
vapours flew from out the vent;
But Strephon, cautious, never meant
The bottom of the pan to grope,
And foul his hands in search of Hope.
Oh! ne'er may such a vile machine
Be once in Celia's chamber seen!
Oh! may she better learn to keep
Those secrets of the hoary deep!
As mutton cutlets, prime of meat,
Which tho' with art you salt and beat
As laws of cookery require,
And roast them at the clearest fire,
If, from adown the hopeful chops
The fat upon a cinder drops,
To stinking smoke it turns the flame,
Pois'ning the flesh from whence it came,
And
up exhales a greasy stench,
For which you curse the careless wench;
So things which must not be exprest,
When plumpt into the reeking chest,
Send up an excremental smell,
To taint the parts from whence they fell,
The petticoats and gown perfume,
And waft a stink round ev'ry room.
Thus finishing his grand survey,
The swain, disgusted, slunk away,
Repeating in his am'rous fits,
"Oh! Celia, Celia Celia sh!"
But Vengeance, goddess never sleeping,
Soon punish'd Strephon for his peeping:
His foul imagination links,
Each dame he sees with all her stinks;
And if unsav'ry odours fly,
Conceives a lady standing by.
All women his description fits,
And both ideas jump like wits,
By vicious fancy coupled fast,
And still appearing in contrast.
I pity wretched Strephon, blind
To all the charms of woman-kind.
Should I the Queen of Love refuse,
Because she rose from stinking ooze?
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