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XI.

If maidens are ravish'd, it is their own choice;
Why are they fo wilful to ftruggle with men?
If they would but lie quiet, and ftifle their voice,
No devil nor dean could ravish 'em then;

Nor would there be need of a ftrong hempen cape 65
Ty'd round the Dean's neck for committing a rape.
XII.

Our church and our ftate dear England maintains, For which all true Proteftants hearts fhould be glad;

She fends us our bishops, and judges and deans; And better would give us, if better fhe had, 70 But, Lord, how the rabble will ftare and will gape, When the good English Dean is hang'd up for a rape!

Fly

The LADY'S Dreffing-room

Written in the year 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,

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No charge has been more frequently brought against the Dean, or indeed more generally admitted, than that of coarfe indelicacy, of which this poem is always produced as an inftance. Here then it is but juftice to remark, that whenever he offends against delicacy, he teaches it; he ftimulates the mind to fenfibility, to correct the faults of habitual negligence; as physicians, to cure a lethargy, have recourfe to a blifter. And though it may reasonably be fuppofed, that few English ladies leave fuch a dreffing-room as Cælia's, yet many may have given fufficient caufe for reminding them, that very foon after defire has been gratified, the utmost delicacy becomes neceffary to prevent disgust,

Stole

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 fmock appear❜d,
Beneath the arm-pits well befmear'd;
Strephon, the rogue, difplay'd it wide,
And turn'd it round on ev'ry fide:
In fuch a cafe few words are beft,
And Strephon bids us guefs the reft;
But fwears how damnably the men lie
In calling Celia fweet and cleanly.

Now liften, while he next produces
The various combs for various ufes;
Fill'd up with dirt so closely fixt,
No bruf could force a way betwixt;
A pafte of compofition rare,

Sweat, dandriff, powder, lead, and hair.
A forehead cloth, with oil upon't,

To fmooth the wrinkles on her front:
Here allum-flower to ftop the steams
Exhal'd from four unfav'ry ftreams;
Their night gloves made of Tripfey's hide,

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15

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Bequeath'd by Tripfey when the dy'd

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With puppy-water, beauty's help,

Diftill'd from Tripfey's darling whelp.

Here galley-pots and vials place'd,

Some fill'd with wafhes, fome with paste;

Some with pomatums, paints and flops,

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And ointments good for fcabby chops,

Hard by a filthy bafon ftands,

Foul'd with the fcouring of her hands;
The bafon takes whatever comes.
The fcrapings from her teeth and gums.
A nafty compound of all hues,
For here the fpits and here the fpues.

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But

But oh! it turn'd poor Strephon's bowels,
When he beheld and fmelt the towels,
Begumm'd, bematter'd, and beflim'd,
With dirt, and fweat, 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 fnuff and fnot,
The ftockings why fhould I expose,
Stain'd with the moisture of her toes;
Or greafy 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 fink the forehead low,
Or on her chin like bristles grow.

t

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50

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The virtues we must not let pass

Of Cælia's magnifying glass;

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When frighted Strephon caft his eye on't,

It fhew'd the vifage of a giant :

A glafs that can to fight difclofe

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The fmalleft worm in Celia'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 rest ;
And muft you needs defcribe the cheft?
That carelefs wench! no creature warn her
To move it out from yonder corner;
But leave it standing full in fight,
For you to exercife your fpite?
In vain the workman fhew'd his wit,
With rings and hinges counterfeit,
To make it feem in this disguise
A cabinet to vulgar eycs,

VOL. VIII.

N

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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,

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When Epimetheus ope'd the locks,
A fudden univerfal crew

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Of human evils upward flew ;
He ftill was comforted to find
That hope at last remaind 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.

O! ne'er fuch a vile machine
may
Be once in Celia's chamber feen!

O! may the better learn to keep
Thofe" fecrets of the hoary deep* !"

As mutton cutlets, prime of meat †,
Which, tho' 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,
Pois'ning the flesh from whence it came,
And up exhales a greafy ftench,
For which you curfe the careless wench:
So things which must not be exprest,
When plumpt into the reeking cheft

* Milton.

+ Primo virorum.

I Vid. Don D's works, and N. Py's.

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ΠΙΟ

Sen

Send up an excremental fmell,

To taint the parts from whence they fell;
The petticoats and gown perfume,

And waft a ftink round ev'ry room.

Thus finishing his grand furvey, The fwain difgufted flunk away; Repeating in his am'rous fits,

"Oh! Cælia, Cælia, Calia fh."

But vengeance, goddefs never fleeping,
Soon punifh'd Strephon for his peeping:
His foul imagination links

Each dame he fees with all her ftinks;
And, if unfav'ry odours fly,
Conceives a lady ftanding by.
All women his defcription fits,
And both ideas jump like wits;
By vicious fancy coupled faft,
And ftill appearing in contraft.

I pity wretched Strephon, blind
To all the charms of womankind.
Should I the queen of love refuse,
Because the rofe from ftinking ooze?
To him that looks behind the feene,
Statira's but fome pocky queen..

When Cælia all her glory fhows,

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If Strephon would but ftop his note,

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;

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He foon will 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,

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