And, though fhe felt his vifage rough,
Yet in a man 'twas well enough.
The honey-moon like lightning flew-
The fecond brought its tranfports too-
A third, a fourth, were not amifs-
The fifth was friendship mix'd with blifs;
But, when a twelvemonth pass'd away,
Jack found his goddess made of clay-
Found half the charms that deck'd her face
Arofe from powder, fhreds, or lace;
But ftill the worst remain'd behind-
That very face had robb'd her mind!
Skill'd in no other arts was she
But dreffing, patching, repartee;
And, just as humour rofe or fell,
By turns a flattern or a belle:
'Tis true the drefs'd with modern grace-
Half naked at a ball or race;
But when at home, at board or bed,
Five greafy night-caps wrapt her head.
Could fo much beauty condefcend
To be a dull domeftic friend?
Could any curtain lectures bring
To decency fo fine a thing?
In short, by night, 'twas fits.or fretting-
By day, 'twas gadding or coquetting.
Fond to be feen, fhe kept a bevy
Of powder'd coxcombs at her levee;
The 'fquire and captain took their stations,
And twenty other near relations:
Jack fuck'd his pipe, and often broke
A figh in fuffocating smoke;
While all their hours were pass'd between
Infulting repartee or spleen.
Thus, as her faults each day were known,
He thinks her features coarfer grown;
He fancies every vice she shews
Or thins her lip, or points her nofe-
Whenever rage or envy rife,
How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes!
He knows not how, but fo it is,
Her face was grown a knowing phiz;
And tho' her fops are wond'rous civil,
He thinks her ugly as the devil.
Now, to perplex the ravell'd noose,
As each a diff'rent way pursues,
While fullen or loquacious ftrife
Promis'd to hold them on for life,
That dire disease, whofe ruthless pow'r
Withers the beauty's tranfient flow'r:
Lo! the small-pox, whose horrid glare
Levell'd its terrors at the fair-
And, rifling every youthful grace,
Left but the remnant of a face!
The glafs grown hateful to her fight,
Reflected now a perfect fright;
Each former art she vainly tries
To bring back luftre to her eyes:
In vain she tries her paste and creams,
To smooth her skin, or hide its feams;
Her country beaux and city cousins,
Lovers no more, flew off by dozens;
The 'fquire himself was feen to yield,
And even the captain quit the field.
Poor madam, now condemn'd to hack
The reft of life with anxious Jack,
Perceiving others fairly flown,
Attempted pleafing him alone.
Jack foon was dazzled to behold
Her prefent face furpass the old;
With modefty her cheeks are dy'd,
Humility difplaces pride;
For tawdry finery is feen
A perfon ever neatly clean:
No more prefuming on her fway,
She learns good nature every day-
Serenely gay, and strict in duty,
Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty.
EPITAPH ON DR. PARNEL.
THIS tomb, infcrib'd to gentle Parnel's name,
May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.
What heart but feels his fweetly moral lay,
That leads to truth thro' pleasure's flowery way?
Celestial themes confefs'd his tuneful aid-
And heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid.
Needless to him the tribute we bestow,
The tranfitory breath of fame below-
More lafting rapture from his works fhall rife,
While converts thank their poet in the skies.
LONG had I fought in vain to find
A likeness for the fcribbling kind—
The modern fcribbling kind, who write
In wit, and fenfe, and nature's fpite:
Till, reading, I forget what day on,
A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon,
I think I met with fomething there
To fuit my purpose to a hair;
But let us not proceed too furious-
First please to turn to God Mercurius:
You'll find him pictur'd at full length
In book the second, page the tenth:
The stress of all my proofs on him I lay,
And now proceed we to our fimile.
Imprimis-pray obferve his hat,
Wings upon either fide-mark that.
Well! what is it from thence we gather?
Why thefe denote a brain of feather.
A brain of feather, very right;
With wit that's flighty, learning light;
Such as to modern bards decreed:
A just comparison-proceed.
In the next place, his feet perufeWings grow again from both his shoes; Defign'd, no doubt, their part to bear, And waft his godship through the air;
And here my fimile unites-
For in a modern poet's flights,
I'm fure it may be justly said,
His feet are useful as his head.
Lastly, vouchsafe t'observe his hand,
Fill'd with a fnake-encircled wand;
By claffic authors term'd caduceus,
And highly fam'd for feveral uses:
To wit-moft wond'roufly endu'd,.
No poppy water half fo good;
For let folks only get a touch,
Its foporific virtue's fuch,
Tho' ne'er fo much awake before,
That quickly they begin to fore;
Add too, what certain writers tell,
With this he drives men's fouls to hell..
Now to apply begin we then:
His wand's a modern author's pen;
The ferpents round about, it twin'd
Denote him of the reptile kind;
Denote the rage with which he writes,.
His frothy flaver, venom'd bites;
An equal femblance still to keep,
Alike too both conduce to fleep.
This diff'rence only, as the god
Drove fouls to Tart'rus with his rod;
With his goofe-quill the fcribbling elf,
Inftead of others, damns himself.
And here my fimile almost tript,
Yet grant a word by way of postscript-
Moreover, Merc'ry had a failing:
Well! what of that? out with it-stealing;
|