The PAINTED LADY. A Tale.

M

Virg.

Nimium ne crede colori.
Ankind, to change by nature prone,
Are ne'er contented with their own:
Still fomething new our fancy leads,
And fomething ftill our blifs impedes:
If we are bleft with fenfe and health,
We aim at beauty, pow'r or wealth;
Until, and fure we're rightly paid,
We quit a fubftance for a shade.
On this why need I longer dwell;
To inftance it, a Tale I'll tell.

Chloe was bleft with noble parts;
Was fair enough to win our hearts:
Her lively wit our fex admir'd;
With every word our hearts she fir'd:
Yet, not contented in this light,
She would be thought a beauty bright.

To compafs this, fome paint's prepar'd,
No time is loft, no labour spar'd;
She's plaifter'd o'er with red and white,
Till ev'ry pimple's out of fight:
The mole no mortal now could spy,
Vermilion hides it from the eye;
And holes, as if they'd never been,
Are now no longer to be feen.
As when the fun, with feeble ray,
To usher in returning day,

His glad'ning face firft 'gins to show,
Doth ev'ry minute ftronger grow;
So Chloe, thro' the pencil's aid,
At every touch is fairer made.

The work now done, th'enraptur'd lafs With great amazement holds the glass, And thus the cries: "Gods! can it be? "Is Chloe blind, or does the fee? "How great the change! how fair my face! "No pimples now do it difgrace; "They're vanish'd all! filed quite away! "Sure this to me's a happy day: "I from this lucky hour foresee "The mighty conquefts gain'd by me: "Of lovers, where I'd two before, "I fhall for certain have a score: "While with fuch beauteous charms I shine, "My Strephon's heart shall e'er be mine: "No more fhall Sue her conquests tell; "For I alone shall bear the bell:

"No more with me fhall Flavia vie,
"Nor Dapper wit my charms defy.'

When thus fhe'd faid, away fhe goes,
Perfumes her hair, puts on her clothes:
By clothes, I mean a birth-day fuit;
Refolv'd to kill, if clothes could do't:
Then to the Op'ra doth repair,
In hafte to fhew her borrow'd air,
What dire mishap her there befel,
The Mufe fhall fpeak, my verfe fhall tell.

While in the garnish'd box fhe fits,
A thousand hopes her heart admits;
That this may love, and loving die,
And that be fmitten with an eye;
That beaux, who coldly look'd before,
May fall in love, and her adore.

Big with these thoughts, to all around
She glances cafts, and fain would wound ;
To all her tinfel charms difplays,
And would attract a thousand ways:
But all in vain her wishes prove;
No tender heart the fires with love:
All men her pleafing hopes defeat,
All fee the paint, and fee the cheat.

Strepbon, an honest fober youth,
Bleft with good fenfe, adorn'd with truth,
Who'd long fincerely lov'd the fair,
Unknown to Chloe, then was there.
Soon as he faw her borrow'd part,
Juft indignation fir'd his heart:
In great difdain he stole away,
And wrote thefe lines th'enfuing day;
Which to the falfe, the painted maid,
He, by his footman, ftrait convey'd.

"While in your native charms you fhone, "I ne'er could call my heart my own; "A moment's blits I never knew, "Unless I was engag'd with you: "But now I yours no more remain ; "I now my captive heart regain : "For fince in borrow'd airs you dreft, "You've loft thofe charms you once poffefs'd."

Vaux-Hall, April 3, 1749.

JOSEPH MAWBZY.

To a Lady, subo afk'd him to defcribe the Pleafure of loving ber.

Each me, O love, in sweetest founds to tell,

What in my breast I for Liberia feel. Rapture, and blifs, and ecstasy, and joy, Each Chloe hears, from every love-fick boy; Give me expreffions equal to my flame, Worthy a paffion of the brightest fame : Let all that's tender, all that's foft, confpire To give a juft defcription of my fire; Imagine all that's lovely in its kind, To feaft the fenfes, or regale the mind: Then think, Oh! think of fomething more divine! [mine. 'Tis that I feel, that more than pleasure's 1749. CYNTHIO,

Ith

Reafons for taking Phyfick.
grumbling gut, and rueful face,
Whilft I my bum o'er close-ftool
place,

And belch enough, and stink, and flew,
To make old C- or W- fpew;
You think me, made the doctor's tool,
To please a knave, commenc'd a fool.
"What foolish farce (you bid me tell ye)
Is wildly acted in my belly,

That honeft beef can't there remain,
But Caro-like comes out again?
Or if into the lower region,

I fend my fowl or duck or widgeon ;[warm,
Whilft with the ftomach's heat they're
With wine refresh'd, nor think of harm

Why

Why should a bolus come, like mad wife,
That leads her liquor'd spouse a fad life,
And drives him out from social ale,
From every friend to mild and stale;
Then down blind alleys makes him plunge

on,

To stink with her in nasty dungeon?

Let nature ever have her way,
Nor check, nor force her in her play.
Can buckthorn plump a turkey better?
Are no geese fat unless they fquitter ?"
When wind and limb you're found, 'tis
true,

My friend, your doctrine then may do :
If you are well, there needs no ftudying,
But with the curate eat your pudding.
Yet, if high fauces, or the devil,
Should curfe you with fcorbutick evil,
And bring dam'd byps and fevers on,
Nor let pure nature act alone;
You'll foon, with penitential face,
To the kind doctor tell your cafe:
You'd never ask him what he brought,
How large the pill, how foul the draught;
But with each wholsome gripe be pleas'd,
And bless the stink by which you're eas'd.
With stumped broom lage Madge was
feen

To fcrub her empty'd kennel clean;
Her yard, fhe knew, would thence be
fweeter,

The kennel hold its water better.

With rival art fir Bob, we know, Would drain the publick coffers low; And wifely purg'd, or bled the state, As butchers calves, to make 'em fat; We profper'd by this cunning fetch, And all by poverty grew rich.

Thus, tho' you see me lank and lean, 'Tis the best way to thrive again; Tho' empty as my purse my belly, Round as a dean's 'twill fooner fwell ye: For, put three horses in a pasture, The leaner horfe will thrive the faster.

Tho' now my cheeks be pale and fal-
low,

For that, still ruddier cheeks will follow :
Tho' now I'm cover'd o'er with dirt,
You'll fee me ten times fmugger for't:
And at myself tho' held my nose is,
"Twill make me fragrant as a rofe is.
But left on what I say you trample,
'Tis well confirm'd by great example.
For thus poor Foppling's coarfer hands
Obey'd no lady's dear commands
Till thrice in dirt and dog-skin laid,
They pleas'd, they charm'd the nicest maid.
Thus, rifing from her evening prayers,
Calia with cleanly skill besmears
Her arms, her breast, her neck and face,
With paint, pomatum, filth and grease ;
Elfe, to her fad difgrace and forrow,
She'll hardly kill five beaus to-morrow;
To-morrow shines an angel bright,
If made a devil on to-night,

The gentlest fawner of the fawning race.
Reftrain'd, he look'd and longing look'd
again;
[vain.
At ev'n he fought him but he fought in
Sad he returns, his finking fpirits fail,
And drop the vigour of his fprightly tail:
Then lowly fall'n, and on the rugged floor,
Clofe by his lord's now first unop`ning door,
In many a groan, as many a piteous howl,
He wept the forrows of his loaded foul.

Lorentio gone! O first and greatest ill, That heav'n could fend, or mortal dog can feel!

Is he then gone? and am I left forlorn? Still left to live, and only live to mourn?

Alas! be's gone, who only knew to prove, How men are grateful, and bor dogs can love.

Me to his honeft fide who now thall take, And stroke the beauties of my glossy neck? When diftant winds in brewing tempefts [how'r? Who now thall call me from the threatned My fault'ring limbs if curs'd diseases fill, Whofe care shall purge me with the friendly

roar,

pill?

Who fhall like him the fever's rage appease, And gently give the fudorifick eafe?

Alas! be's gone, who only liv'd to prove, How men are grateful, and bow dogs can love. What, tho' the greyhound cheats the hungry 'fquire,

By ven'fon ravish'd from the roasting fire ? Nor him I envy'd, nor the dogs of state, With fweet-meats glutted from the costly plate.

"My dog, Lorentio faid, the courtier shun, "And fcorn the bread by fhameless flatt'ry

won."

Or fipt he nectar from the sugar'd tea? The treat nectareous was referv'd for me: Then was my nofe with butter smear'd along,

With butter grateful to the licking tongue. But ah! true happiness was ne'er below; Joy in one cup and mingled forrows flow:

Short is my joy, fince envious fate removes The man that's grateful from the dog that loves. Well knew Lorentio all the shooter's part,

And first in goodness was the first in art': Well knew each bill, and ev'ry tufty bed, Where fuck'd the woodcock, or the par[game,

tridge laid.

Ev'n now, methinks, I fpring the rifing Inftant his levell'd tube has fatal aim; Inftant he fires, the echoing hills refound, And the proud bird lies humbled on the ground.

Strait to my lord the flutt'ring prey I bear,

care;

His clapping palm thanks all my studious [exprefs Our mutual looks, our voice, glad eyes The foul of pleasure, and of happiness.

Thrice happy, but that envious fate removes The man that's grateful from the dog that loves. May now wet woodcocks haunt the funny mead,

Or in cold woods the tender quail be fed : May greyhounds tremble from the chafing hare, [fear: And fwains amaz'd the fhooting pheasant Each midnight clock may rose-cheek'd students tell,

And butlers fat with quarts of water swell. Go, nature, back, fince envious fate removes The man that's grateful from the dog that loves. Ah me! my foul what unknown horrors [freeze.

feize? Slow moves my blood, my chilling fpirits Ah me! too much, too much, alas! I fear What thefe quick pains and piercing forrows bear.

-But if it must be fo-if my short breath And ftiff'ning limbs prefage approach of

I

To a certain ATHEIST. Ndeed, Mr. C—, it seems very odd, While your eyes view his works, to deny there's a God;

Or affert that our actions he does nor regard, Nor will punish our vice, or our virtue reward: [this is but true,

What! no vengeance to come? well-if How happy 'twill be for the devil and you. To the Memory of GERSHOM LLOYD, Efq; one of the affiftant Judges, and Reprefentative for the parish of St. Thomas in the Eaft, Jamaica.

HEN fo much worth to dust and ashes turns, [mourns;

WH

The publick lofs each gen'rous bolom
For this receive, O much-lamented shade,
This flender tribute to thy mem'ry paid;
And thus while grief on ev'ry brow ap-
pears,

Accept a ftranger's fympathetick tears;
A ftranger, whofe ambitious view could

be,

To live belov'd, and die rever'd, like thee; Like thee, to pass this vale of thorny cares, Amidst the orphans cries, and widows

tears.

For thee they weep, whose ever-friendly door [poor; Ne'er barr'd its entrance from th'imploring Whofe judgment cou'd difcern where merit

lay,

Tho' clouds of poverty obfcur'd the way;
Truth, candour, wit, and folid learning
join'd,
[mind;
Sweeten'd his converse, and improv'd his
Cautious to take, and flow to give offence,
His virtue only cou'd exceed his fenfe ;
The charms of focial life his ftedfast care,
The tender husband, and the friend fincere ;
Who wifely knew the paths of vice to fly,
And only liv'd, that he might learn to die;
And dy'd alone, that he might still survive,
Being loft to us, in life eternal live;
Poffefs'd of all the bright returns that flow
From wisdom, truth, and constancy be-
low;

While on the marble, faithful to its trust,
His virtues bloom, and flourish in the duft.
Amer vincit omnia.
An EPIGRAM.

Bill. (See p. 122, 133.)

HY has 1-d E- 'gainst this bill

W His whole declamatory skill

So tediously exerted;

The reason's plain-for t'other day
He mutiny'd himself, for pay,

And he has twice deferted.

To caft his darts began,

He turn'd, his skill and pow'r to prove,

Great Jove into a fwan.

Experience now can fairly fhew

That ftill the wedding-noofe,

Whether the paffion's falfe or true,

Oft makes a man a goose.

J. H.

PRO