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If maidens are ravish'd, it is their own choice;
Why are they so wilful to struggle with men ?
If they would but lie quiet, and stifle their voice,
No devil nor dean could ravish 'em then; Norwould there be need of a strong hempen cape 65 Ty'd round the Dean's neck for committing a rape.
XII. Our church and our state dear England maintains, For which all true Protestants hearts should be
glad ; She sends ns our bishops, and judges and deans;
And better would give us, if better she had, 70 But, Lord, how the rabble will stare and will gape, When the good English Dean is hang'd up for a rape!
The Lady's Dressing room *.
Written in the year 1730.
Ive hours (and who can do it Iefs in ?)
By haughty Cælia spent in dressing ; The goddess from her chamber issues, Array'd in lace, brocades, and tiffues, Strephon, who found the room was void, And Betty otherwise employ'd,
No charge has boen more frequently brought against the Dean, or indeed more generally admitted, than that of coarse indelicacy, of which this poem is alúays 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 blitter. And though it may reasonably be fupfored, that few English ladies leave such a dresing-room as Cælia's, yer many may have given sufficient cause for reminding them, that very fuon after de fire bas been gratified, the utmost delicacy becomes neceffary to prevent disgust.
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 befmear'd ;
Strephon, the rogue, display'd it wide,
And turn'd it round on ev'ry fide :
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;
Fillid 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 allum-flower to itop the steams
Exhalid from four unfav'ry streams;
Their night-gloves made of Tripsey's hide,
Bequeath'd by Tripsey when the dy'd
With puppy-water, beauty's help,
Distill'd from Tripfey’s darling whelp.
Here galley-pots and vials place'd,
Some fill'd with washes, fome with paste ;
Some with pomatums, paints and flops,
And ointments good for scabby chops,
Hard by a filthy bason stands,
Foul'd with the scouring of her hands;
The bason takes whatever comes.
The scrapings from her teeth and gums.
A nafty compound of all hues,
For here the fpits and here the fpucs.
But oh! it turn'd poor Strephon's bowels,
When he beheld and fmelt the towels,
Begumm’d, bematter'd, and beslim’d,
With dirt, and sweat, and ear-wax grim'd.
No object Strephon's eye escapes ;
Her petticoats in frowzy 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 Cælia flept 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 bristies
The virtues we must not let pass
Of Cælia's magnifying glass ;
When frighted Strephon cast his eye on't,
It shew'd the visage of a giant :
A glass that can to fight disclofe
The smallest worm in Celia's nose,
And faithfully direct her nail
To squeeze 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 rest ;
And must you needs describe the cheft?
That careless wench! no creature warn her
To move it out from yonder corner;
But leave it standing full in fight,
For you to exercise your spite ?
In vain the workman shew'd his wit,
With rings and hinges counterfeit,
To make it seem in this disguise
A cabinet to vulgur 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 smelt it all the time before.
As from within Pandora's box,
When Epimetheus ope'd the locks,
A sudden universal crew
Of human evils upward flew ;
He still was conforted to find
That hope at last remaind behind :
So Strephon lifting up the lid,
To view what in the chest was hid,
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.
O! ne'er may such a vile machine
Be once in Celia's chamber seen!
O! may she better learn to keep
Those « fecrets of the hoary deep* !"
As mutton cutlets, prime of meat t,
Wbich, 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 fiefh from whence it came,
And up exhales a greasy stench,
For which you curse the careless wench:
So things which must not be expreft,
When plumpt into the reeking chest
+ Primo virorum.
I Vid. Den Dam's works, and N, Pony's.
Send up an excremental smell,
To taint the parts from whence they fell ;
The perticoats and gown perfume,
And waft a stink round ev'ry room.
Thus finishing his grand survey,
The fwain disgufted flunk away;
Kepeating in his am’rous fits,
“ Oh! Cælia, Culia, Cælia ih -."'
vengeance, goddess never sleeping,
Soon punish'd Strephon for his peeping :
His foul imagination links:
Fach dame he fees with all her itinks;
And, if unfav'ry odours fly,
Conceives a lady standing by.
All women his description tits,
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 womankind.
Should I the queen of love refuse,
Because she rofe from stinking ooze?
To him that looks behind the feene,
Statira's but some pocky queen,
When Cælia all her glory shows,
135 IF Strephon would but stop his note, Who now so impiously blafphemes Her ointments, daubs, and paints, and creams, Her washes, flops, and every clout, With which he makes fo foul a rout;
140 He soon will learn to think like me, And bless his ravish'd eyes to see Such order from confusion sprung, Such gaudy tulips rais'd from dung.