THE PROGRESS OF BEAUTY. 1720.

WHEN first Diana leaves her bed,

Vapours and steams her look disgrace,

A frowzy dirty-colour'd red

Sits on her cloudy wrinkled face:

But by degrees, when mounted high,
Her artificial face appears

Down from her window in the sky,
Her spots are gone, her visage clears.

Cia toigan talamsa? &c

Who kick'd up this dust?
Cried one of the clergy,
Bolting up like a post,-
Come be quiet, I charge ye.

He brought no holy water,
The riot to charm;

But a switch, for the matter
Scarce so thick as his arm.

While he deem'd them all quell'd,
This churchman so able

By a back-stroke was fell'd,
Like a log on the table.

Next up got a friar

To appease these rude members;

But was pitched cross the fire

With his breech on the embers.

While loudly he hollow'd,

"Would you match with me, Who my studies have follow'd At Rome beyond sea :

"While you thrumm'd old ballads
Sitting squat like a boor;
"With potatoes for sallads,

In the bog of Shiemoor?"

'Twixt earthly females and the moon,
All parallels exactly run:
If Celia should appear too soon,

Alas, the nymph would be undone!

To see her from her pillow rise,
All reeking in a cloudy steam,

Crack'd lips, foul teeth, and gummy eyes,

Poor Strephon! how would he blaspheme!

Three colours, black, and red, and white,
So graceful in their proper place,
Remove them to a different site,
They form a frightful hideous face:

For instance, when the lily skips
Into the precincts of the rose,
And takes possession of the lips,
Leaving the purple to the nose:

So Celia went entire to bed,

All her complexion safe and sound; But, when she rose, white, black, and red, Though still in sight, had changed their ground.

The black, which would not be confined,

A more inferior station seeks,

Leaving the fiery red behind,

And mingles in her muddy cheeks.

But Celia can with ease reduce,

By help of pencil, paint, and brush, Each colour to its place and use,

And teach her cheeks again to blush.

She knows her early self no more,

But fill'd with admiration stands ; As other painters oft adore

The workmanship of their own hands.

Thus, after four important hours,
Celia's the wonder of her sex;
Say, which among the heavenly powers
Could cause such marvellous effects?

Venus, indulgent to her kind,

Gave women all their hearts could wish, When first she taught them where to find White lead and Lusitanian* dish.

Love with white lead cements his wings;
White lead was sent us to repair
Two brightest, brittlest, earthly things,
A lady's face, and China-ware.

She ventures now to lift the sash ;
The window is her proper sphere;
Ah, lovely nymph: be not too rash,
Nor let the beaux approach too near.

Take pattern by your sister star ;

Delude at once and bless our sight; When you are seen, be seen from far, And chiefly choose to shine by night.

But art no longer can prevail,

When the materials all are gone; The best mechanic hand must fail, Where nothing's left to work upon.

* Portugal.-H.

Matter, as wise logicians say,

Cannot without a form subsist;
And form, say I, as well as they,
Must fail, if matter brings no grist.

And this is fair Diana's case;

For all astrologers maintain,

Each night a bit drops off her face,
When mortals say she's in her wane:

*

While Partridge wisely shews the cause
Efficient of the moon's decay,
That Cancer with his poisonous claws
Attacks her in the milky way:

But Gadbury, in art profound,

From her pale cheeks pretends to shew,
That swain Endymion is not sound,
Or else that Mercury's her foe.

But let the cause be what it will,
In half a month she looks so thin,
That Flamsteed † can, with all his skill,
See but her forehead and her chin.

Yet, as she wastes, she grows discreet,
Till midnight never shews her head;
So rotting Celia strolls the street,
When sober folks are all a-bed:

For sure, if this be Luna's fate,
Poor Celia, but of mortal race,
In vain expects a longer date

To the materials of her face.

* Partridge and Gadbury wrote each an ephemeris.-H. † John Flamsteed, the celebrated astronomer royal, died in 1719, aged 73.-N.

When Mercury her tresses mows,

To think of black-lead combs is vain:
No painting can restore a nose,
Nor will her teeth return again.

Ye powers who over love preside:
Since mortal beauties drop so soon,
If ye would have us well supplied,

Send us new nymphs with each new moon!

THE PROGRESS OF POETRY.

THE farmer's goose, who in the stubble
Has fed without restraint or trouble,
Grown fat with corn and sitting still,
Can scarce get o'er the barn-door sill
And hardly waddles forth to cool
Her belly in the neighbouring pool!
Nor loudly cackles at the door;
For cackling shews the goose is poor.
But, when she must be turn'd to graze,
And round the barren common strays,
Hard exercise, and harder fare,

Soon make my dame grow lank and spare ;
Her body light, she tries her wings,

And scorns the ground, and upward springs;
While all the parish, as she flies,

Hear sounds harmonious from the skies.
Such is the poet fresh in pay,

The third night's profits of his play;
His morning draughts till noon can swill,
Among his brethren of the quill :