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ON STEPHEN DUCK,

THE THRESHER AND FAVOURITE POET.

A QUIBBLING EPIGRAM. 1730.

HE threfrer Duck could o'er the Queen preTHE threfter Duck could o'er the Queen prevail;

The proverb fays, no fence against a flail.
From threshing corn he turns to the his brains;
For which her Majefty allows him grains.
Though 'tis confeft, that thofe who ever faw
His poems, think them all not worth a firaw!
Thrice happy Duck, employ'd in threfning
Bubble!

Thy toil is leffen'd, and thy profits double.

FIVE

THE LADY'S DRESSING-ROOM. 1730.
IVE hours (and who can do it lefs in?)
By haughty Cælia spent in dreffing;
The Goddefs from her chamber iffues,
Array'd in lace, brocades, and tiffues.
Strephon who found the room was void,
And Betty otherwise employ'd,
Stole in, and took a ftrict furvey
Of all the litter as it lay:
Whereof, to make the matter clear,
An inventory follows here.

And, firft, a dirty fmock appear❜d,
Beneath the arm-pits well befinear'd;
Streplion, the rogue, difplay'd it wide,
And turn'd it round on every fdc:
In fuch a cafe, few words are beft,
And Strephon bids us guefs the rest;
But fwears, how damnably the men lie
In calling Celia fweet and cleanly.

Now listen, while he next produces
The various combs for various uíes;
Fill'd-up with dirt fo closely fixt,
No brush could force a way betwixt;
A patte of compofition rare,

Sweet, dandriff, powder, lead, and hair.)
A forehead-cloth with oil upon 't,
To smooth the wrinkles on her front;
Here alum-flower, to stop the fteams
Exhal'd from four unfavory ftreams;
There night-gloves made of Tripley's hide,
Bequeath'd by Tripfey when he died;
With puppy-water, beauty's help,
Distilled from Tripfey's darling whelp.

Here gallipots and vials plac'd,
Some till'd with washes, fome with pate;
Some with pomatums, paints, and Pepa,
And cintments good for teabby chops.
Hard-by a filthy bafon ftands,
Foul'd with the fcouring of her hands:
The bafon takes whatever comes,
The ferapirgs from her teeth and gums,
A nafty compound of all hues,

For here the fpits, and here the fpues.

But, oh! it turn'd poor Strephon's bowel, When he beheld and fme: the towels, Begumm'd, bematter'd, and beflim d, With dirt, and fweat, and car-wax grim'd, No object Strephon's eye escapes; Here petticoats in frowzy heaps; Nor be the handkerchiefs forgot, All varnish'd o'er with fnuff and fnot, The stockings why should I expose, Stain'd with the moisture of her toes; Or greafy coifs, or pinners reeking, Which Calia fept at least a week in? A pair of tweezers next he found, To pluck her brows in arches round; Or hairs that fink the forebead low, Or on her chin like briftles grow.

The virtues we must not let pafs
Of Cælia's magnifying-glais;
When frighted Strephon caft his eye on 't,
It fhew'd the visage of a giant;

A glafs that can to fight difclofe
The fmalleft worm in Cælia's nofe,
And faithfully direct her nail
To fqueeze it out from head to tail;
For, catch it nicely by the head,
It must come out, alive or dead.

Why, Strephon, will you tell the reft?
And muft you needs defcribe the cheft?
That carelefs wench! no creature warn ber
To move it out from yonder corner!
But leave it standing full in fight,
For you to exercise your spite?
In vain the workman fhew'd his wit,
With rings and hinges counterfeit,
To make it feem in this disguife
A cabinet to vulgar eyes,

Which Strephon ventur'd to look in,
Refolv'd to go through thick and thin.
He lifts the lid: there needs no more,
He fmelt it all the time before.

As, from within Pandora's box,
When Epimetheus op'd the locks,
A fudden univerfal crew
Of human evils upward flew,
He ftill was comforted to find
That hope at last remain❜d behind;
So Strephon lifting up the lid,
To view what in the cheft 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 fearch of hope.

Oh! ne'er may fuch a vile machine
Be once in Calia's chamber feen!

Oh! may fhe better learn to keep
Thofefecrets of the hoary deep !*

As mutton-cutlets, † prime of meat,
Which though with art you falt and beat,
As laws of cookery require,

And roaft them at the clearest fire;

If from adown the hopeful chops
The fat upon a cinder drops,

To ftinking fmoke it turns the flame,
Poifoning the flesh from whence it came,
And up exhales a greafy stench,

For which you curfe the careless wench :
So things which muft not be exprest,
When plumpt into the reeking chest,
Send up an excremental fmell

To taint the parts from whence they fell;
The petticoats and gown perfume,
And waft a ftink round every room.
Thus finifning his grand furvey,
The twain difgusted flunk away;
Repeating in his amorous fits,
"Oh! Calia, Calia, Cælia fh-!"
But Vengeance, goddefs never fleeping,
Soon punish'd Strephon for his peeping:
His foul imagination links

Each dame he fees with all her finks;
And, if unfavory odours fly,
Conceives a lady standing by.
All women his defcription £ts,
And both ideas jump like wits;
By vicious fancy coupled faft,
And still appearing in contraft.

I pity wretched Strephon, blind
To all the charms of woman-kind.
Should I the Queen of Love refuse,
Because the rofe from ftinking ooze?
To him that looks behind the scene,
Statira's but fome pocky quean.

When Cælia all her glory fhows,
If Strephon would but ftop his nose,
Who now fo impiously blafphemes

Her ointments, daubs, and paints, and creams,
Her washes, flops, and every clout,
With which he makes fo foul a rout;
He foon would learn to think like me,
And blefs his ravish'd eyes to fee
Such order from confusion sprung,
Such gaudy tulips rais'd from dung.

THE POWER OF TIME. 1730.

IF neither brafs nor marble can withstand
The mortal force of Time's deftructive hand;

If mountains fink to vales, if cities die,
And legening rivers mourn their fountains dry:

*Milton.

Prima virorum.

When my old caflock (faid a Welsh divine) Is out at elbows; why fould I repine?

ON MR. PULTENEY'S

BEING PUT OUT OF THE COUNCIL. 1731.

SIR

IR Robert, weary'd by Will Pulteney's teafings,

Who interrupted him in all his leafings,

Refolv'd that Will and he fhould meet no more:
Full in his face Bob fhuts the council-door;
Nor lets him fit as juftice on the bench,
To punish thieves, or lath a fuburb-wench.
Yet ftill St. Stephen's chapel open lies
For Will to enter.-What fhall I advife?

Ev'n quit the HOUSE, for thou too long haft fat in 't;

Produce at last thy dormant ducal patent;
There, near thy master's throne in shelter plac'd,
Let Will unheard by thee his thunder wafte.
Yet ftill I fear your work is done but half;
For, while he keeps his pen, you are not fafe.
Hear an old fable, and a dull one too;
It bears a moral, when apply'd to you,

A hare had long efcap'd pursuing hounds,
By often fhifting into diftant grounds;
Till, finding all his artifices vain,
To fave his life he leap'd into the main.
But there, alas! he could no fafety find,
A pack of dog-fifh had him in the wind.
He fcours away; and, to avoid the foe,
Defcends for fhelter to the fhades below:
There Cerberus lay watching in his den
(He had not feen a hare the lord knows when)
Out bounc'd the maftiff of the triple head;
Away the hare with double fwiftnefs fled;
Hunted from earth, and fea, and hell, he flies
(Fear lent him wings) for fafety to the kies.
How was the fearful animal diftreft!
Behold a foe more fierce than all the reft!
Sirius, the fwifteft of the heavenly pack,
Fail'd but an inch to feize him by the back,
He fled to earth, but first it coft him dear:
He left his fcut behind, and hilf an ear.
Thus was the hare pursued, though free from
guilt;

Thus, Bob, fhalt thou be maul'd, fly where thou wilt.

Then, honeft Robin, of thy corpfe beware;
Thou art not half fo nimble as a hare :
Too ponderous is thy bulk to mount the sky;
Nor can you go to hell, before you die.
So keen thy hunters, and thy fcent so strong,
Thy turns and doublings cannot fave thee long*.

This hunting ended in the promotion both of Will and Bob. Bob was no longer first minifter, but Earl of Orford; and Will was no longer his opponent, but Earl of Bath. H.

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1731.

Tbotin ipecial wits, and lovers both, TWO college fophs of Cambridge growth,

Conferring, as they us'd to meet,

On love, and books, in rapture fweet
(Mufe, find me names to fit my metre,
Caffinus this, and other Peter);
Friend Peter to Caffinus goes,

To chat a while, and warm his nose;
But fuch a fight was never seen,
The lad lay fwallow'd up in spleen.
He feem'd as juft crept out of bed;
One greafy flocking round his head,
The other be fat down to dearn
With threads of different-colour'd yarn ;
His breeches torn expofing wide
A ragged fhirt and tawny hide.

Scorch'd were his thins, his legs were bare,
But well embrown'd with dirt and hair.
A rug was o'er his fhoulders thrown
(A rug; for night-gown he had none),
His jordan ftood in manner fitting
Between his legs to spew or spit in 3

* The duke was unhappily killed, in crossing the river Boyre, July 1, 1690; and was buried in St. Patrick's cathedral; where the dean and chapter erected a small monument to his honour, at their own experée.

His ancient pipe, in fable dy'd,
And half unfmok'd, lay by his fde.

Him thus accoutred Peter found,
With eyes in smoke and weeping drown'd;
The leavings of his last night's pot
On embers plac'd, to drink it hot.

Why, Caffy, thou wilt doze thy pate;
What makes thee lie a-bed fo late?
The finch, the linnet, and the thrush,
Their mattins chant in every bush:
And I have heard thee oft falute
Aurora with thy early flute.
Heaven fend thou haft not got the hyps!
How! not a word come from thy lips?
Then gave him fome familiar thumps;
A college-joke, to cure the dumps.

The fwain at laft, with grief oppreft,
Cry'd, Calia! thrice, and figh'd the reft.
Dear Caffy, though to ask I dread,
Yet afk I muft. Is Calia dead?

How happy I, were that the worst!
But I was fated to be curft.

Come, tell us, has the play'd the whore?
Oh, Peter, would it were no more!
Why, plague confound her fandy locks!
Say, has the fmall or greater pox
Sunk down her nofe, or feam'd her face?
Be eafy, 'tis a common cafe.

Oh, Peter! beauty's but a varnish,
Which time and accidents will tarnif:
But Cælia has contriv'd to blaft
Those beauties that might ever laft.
Nor can imagination guess,
Nor eloquence divine exprefs,
How that ungrateful charming maid
My pureft paffion has betray'd,
Conceive the most envenom'd dart
To pierce an injur'd lover's heart.

Why, hang her; though the feems to coy, I know the loves the barber's boy.

Friend Peter, this I could excuse;
For every nymph has leave to choose ;
Nor have I reafon to complain,
She loves a more deferving fwain.
But, oh! how ill haft thou divin'd
A crime that fhocks all human-kind;
A deed unknown to female race,
At which the fun fhould hide his face!
Advice in vain you would apply-
Then leave me to despair and die.
Ye kind Arcadians, on my urn
Thefe elegies and fonnets burn;
And on the marble grave thefe rhymes,
A monument to after-times;
“Here Caffy lies, by Cœlia fiain,
"And dying never told his pain.”

The loud Cerberian triple bark. Vain empty world, farewell. But hark, And there-behold Alecto stand, A whip of fcorpions in her hand. The words that D. Swift firft concluded the Beckoning to waft me o'er the ferry. Lo, Charon from his leaky wherry epitaph with, were "Saltem ut fciat viator indig-I come, come, Medusa! fee, nabundus, quali in cellula tanti ductoris cineres Her ferpents hifs direct at me, delitefcunt"

:

Begone; unhand me, hellish fry: "Avaunt-ye cannot fay 'tis I."

Dear Caffy, thou must purge and bleed ; I fear thou wilt be mad indeed. But now, by friendship's sacred laws, I here conjure thee, tell the cause ; And Calia's horrid fact relate:

Thy friend would gladly fhare thy fate. To force it out, my heart muft rend: Yet when conjur'd by fuch a friend— Think, Peter, how my foul is rackt! Thefe eyes, thefe eyes, beheld the fact. Now bend thine ear, fince out it must; But when thou feeft me laid in duft, The fecret thou fhalt ne'er impart, Not to the nymph that keeps thy heart; (How would her virgin foul bemoan A crime to all her fex unknown!) Nor whisper to the tattling reeds The blackeft of all female deeds; Nor blab it on the lonely rocks, Where Echo fits, and liftening mocks; Nor let the Zephyrs' treacherous gale Through Cambridge waft the direful tale; Nor to the chattering feather'd race Discover Cælia's foul difgrace. But, if you fail, my spectre dread, Attending nightly round your bed: And yet I dare confide in you: So take my fecret, and adieu. Nor wonder how 1 loft my wits: Oh! Cælia, Cælia, Cælia fh-!

A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG NYMPH
GOING TO BED.

WRITTEN FOR THE HONOUR OF THE FAIR SEX.

CORINNA, pride of Drury-lane,

For whom no fhepherd fighs in vain;
Never did Covent-garden boaft
So bright a batter'd strolling toaft!
No drunken rake to pick her up;
Nor cellar, where on tick to fup;
Returning at the midnight hour,
Four ftories climbing to her bower;
Then feated on a three-legg'd chair.
Takes off her artificial hair.
Now picking out a crystal eye,
She wipes it clean, and lays it by:
Her eye-brows, from a moufe's hide,
Stuck on with art on either fide,

Pells off with care, and firft difplays 'em,
'Then in a play-book fmoothly lays 'em :
Now dextrously her plumpers draws,
That ferve to fill her hollow jaws :
Untwists a wire, and from her gums
A fet of teeth completely comes:
Pulls out the rags contriv'd to prop
Her flabby dugs, and down they drop.
Proceeding on, the lovely Goddefs
Unlaces next her steel-ribb'd bodice,
*See Macbeth,

Which, by the operator's fkill,
Prefs down the lumps, the hollows fill
Up goes her hand, and off the flips
The boltters that supply her hips.
With gentleft touch the next explores
Her fhankres, iffues, running fores,
Effects of many a fad difafter;
And then to each applies a plafter:
But muft, before she goes to bed,
Rub off the daubs of white and red,
And fmooth the furrows in her front
With greasy paper stuck upon 't.
She takes a bolus ere fhe fleeps;
And then between two blankets creeps:
With pains of love torinented lies;
Or, if the chance to close her eyes,
Of Bridewell and the Compter dreams,
And feels the lath, and faintly fcreams;
Or, by a faithlefs bully drawn,
At fome hedge-tavern lies in pawn;
Or to Jamaica feems tranfported
Alone, and by no planter courted;
Or, near Fleet-ditch's oozy brinks,
Surrounded with a hundred stinks,
Belated, feems on watch to lie,
And fnap fome cully paffing by ;
Or, ftruck with fear, her fancy runs
On watchmen, conftables, and duns,
From whom he meets with frequent rubs;
But never from religious clubs,

Whofe favour the is fure to find,
Because the pays them all in kind.

Corinna wakes. A dreadful fight!
Behold the ruins of the night!
A wicked rat her plafter stole,
Half eat, and dragg'd it to his hole.
The cryftal eye, alas! was mifs'd;
And pufs had on her plumpers p—ss’d.
A pigeon pick'd her iffue-peas:

And Shock her trefles ill'd with fleas.

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No humours grofs, or frowzy fteams,
No noifome whiffs, or fweaty ftreams,
Before, behind, above, below,
Could from her taintlefs body flow:
Would fo difcreetly things difpose,
None ever faw her pluck a rofe.
Her deareft comrades never caught her
Squat on her hams, to make maid's water:
You'd fwear that fo divine a creature
Felt no neceffities of nature.

In fummer had the walk'd the town,
Her arm-pits would not ftain her gown:
At country-dances not a nofe

Could in the dog-days fmell her toes.

Her milk-white hands, both palms and backs,

Like ivory dry, and soft as wax,

Her hands, the fofteft ever felt,

For, as he view'd his perfon round,
Mere mortal fleft. was all he found:
His hand, his neck, his mouth, his feet,
Were duly wash'd, to keep them sweet
(With other parts that fall be nameless,
The ladies elfe might think me fhamelets).
The weather and his love were hot;
And, fhould he ftruggle, I know what-
Why, let it go, it I must tell it-

He'll fweat, and then the nymph may fmell it;
While fhe, a goddess dy'd in grain,
Was unfufceptible of ftain,

And, Venus-like, her fragrant fin
Exhal'd ambrofia from within.
Can fuch a deity endure

A mortal human touch impure?
How did the humbled fwain deteft

Though cold would burn, though dry would melt. His pric ly beard, and hairy breast!

Dear Venus, hide this wondrous maid,

Nor let her loose to spoil your trade.

While the ingroffes every fwain,

You but o'er half the world can reign.
Think what a cafe all men are now in,
What ogling, fighing, toafting, vowing!
What powder'd wigs! what flames and darts!
What hampers full of bleeding hearts!
What fword-knots! what poetic strains!
What billet-doux, and clouded canes!

But Strephon figh'd fo lound and strong,
He blew a fettlement along;
And bravely drove his rivals down
With coach and fix, and house in town.
The bathful nymph no more withstands,
Because her dear papa commands.
The charming couple now unites :
Proceed we to the marriage-rites.

Imprimis, at the temple-porch
Stood Hymen with a flaming torch:
The fmiling Cyprian Goddei's brings
Her infant-loves with purple wings;
And pigeons billing, fparrows treading,
Fair emblems of a fruitful wedding.
The Mufes next in order follow,
Conducted by their fquire, Apollo:
Then Mercury with flver tongue;
And Hebe, goddess ever young.
Behold, the bridegroom and his bride
Walk hand in hand, and fde by fide;
She by the tender Graces dreft,
But he by Mars, in fcarlet veft.

The nymph was cover'd with her flammeum,
And Phoebus fung th' epithalamium.
And laft, to make the matter fure,
Dame Juno brought a priest demure.
Luna was abfent, on pretence

Her time was not till nine months hence.
The rites perform'd, the parfon paid,
In ftate return'd the grand parade;
With loud huzza's from all the boys,
That now the pair must crown their joys.
But ftill the hardest part remains:
Strephon had long perplex'd his brains,
How with fo high a nymph he might
Demean himself the wedding-night:

His night-cap, border'd round with lace,
Could give no foftnefs to his face.

Yet, if the goddess could be kind,
What endless raptures muft he find!
And Goddeffes have now and then
Come down to vit mortal men;
To vift, and to court them too :
A certain Goddefs, God knows who,
(As in a book he heard it read)
Took Colonel Peleus to her bed.
But what if he fhould lofe his life
By venturing on his heavenly wife?
(For Strephon could remember well,
That once he heard a fchool-boy tell,
How Semele of mortal race

By thunder died in Jove's embrace.)
And what if daring Strephon dies
By lightning fhot from Chloe's eyes?

While thefe reflections Ell'd his head,
The bride was put in form to bed:
He follow'd, ftript, and in he crept,
But awfully his diflance kept.

Now fender well, ye parents dear ;
Forbid your daughters guzzling beer;
And make them every afternoon
Forbear their tea, or drink it foon;
That, ere to bed they venture up,
They may discharge it every sup :
If not, they must in evil plight
Be often forc'd to rife at night,
Keep them to wholefome food confin'd,
Nor let them tafte what caufes wind:
('Tis this the fage of Samos means,
Ferbidding his difciples beans.)
Oh! think what evils muft enfue;
Mifs Moll the jade will burn it blue :
And, when he once has got the art,
She cannot help it for her heart;

But out it flies, ev'n when the meets
Her bridegroom in the wedding-fheets.
Carminative and diuretic

Will damp all paffion fympathetic:
And Love fuch nicety requires,
One blaft will put out all his fires.
Since hufbands get behind the scene,
The wife should study to be clean;

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