The Works of Dr. Jonathan Swift ...

So bright a batter'd strolling toast!
No druken rake to pick her up,
No cellar, where on tick to fup;
Returning at the midnight-hour,
Four stories climbing to her bow'r;
Then feated on a three-legg'd chair,
Takes off her artificial hair.
Now picking out a crystal eye,
She wipes it clean, and lays it by.
Her eyebrows from a moufe's hide
Stuck on with art on either fide,

Pulls off with care, and firft difplays 'em,
Then in a play-book smoothly lays 'em..
Now dextrously her plumpers draws,
That ferve to fill her hollow jaws.
Untwists a wire, and from her gums
A fet of teeth completely comes.
Pulls out the rags contriv'd to prop
Her flabby dugs, and down, they drop.

This poem, for which fome have thought no apology could be offered, deferves, on the contrary, great commendation; as it much mon forcibly restrains the thoughtless and the young from the risk of health and life, by picking up a prostitute, than the finest declamation on the fordidness of the appetite. Hawkef. VOL. VII.

Proceeding on, the lovely goddess

Unlaces next her steel-ribb'd bodice,

Which, by the operator's skill,

Prefs down the lumps, the hollows fill.
Up goes her hand, and off the flips
The bolsters that fupply her hips.
With gentleft touch the next explores
Her fhancres, iffues, running fores;
Effects of many a sad disaster,
And then to each applies a plaifter:
But muft, before she goes to bed,
Rub off the daubs of white and red,
And smooth the furrows in her front
With greasy paper stuck upon't.
She takes a bolus ere the fleeps;
And then between two blankets creeps.
With pains of love tormented lies;
Or if the chance to close her eyes,
Of Bridewell and the Compter dreams,
And feels the lafh, and faintly fcreams;
Or by a faithless bully drawn,
At fome hedge tavern lies in pawn ;
Or to Jamaica feems transported
Alone, and by no planter courted;
Or, near Fleet-ditch's oozy brinks,
Surrounded with a hundred stinks,
Belated, feems on watch to lie,
And fnap fome cully paffing by;

.50

CORINNA wakes. A dreadful fight!
Behold the ruins of the night!

A wicked rat her plaister stole,
Half eat, and dragg'd it to his hole.
The cryftal eye, alas! was mifs'd;

And puss had on her plumpers p-fs'd.

A pigeon pick'd her iffue-peas:

And shock her treffes fill'd with fleas.

THE nymph, tho' in this mangled plight, Muft ev'ry morn her limbs unite.

But how fhall I describe her arts
To recollect the fcatter'd parts
Or fhew the anguish, toil, and pain,
Of gath'ring up herself again?
The bashful mufe will never bear
In fuch a scene to interfere.
Corinna in the morning dizen'd,

Who fees, will spue; who fmells, be poison'd.
STREPHON and CHLOE *.
Written in the year 1731.

OF Chloe all the town has rung,

By ev'ry fize of poets fung:

So beautiful a nymph appears
But once in twenty thousand years;
By nature form'd with nicest care,
And faultless to a fingle hair.

* This poem has among others been cenfured for indelicacy; but with no better reason than a medicine would be rejected for its ill tafte. By attending to the marriage of Strephon and Chloe, the reader is neceffarily led to confider the effect of that grofs familiarity in which it is to be feared many married persons think they have a right to indulge themselves: he who is disgusted at the picture, feels the force of the precept, not to disgust another by his practice: and let it never be forgotten, that nothing quenches defire like indelicacy; and that when defire has been thus quenched, kindness will inevitably grow cold. Hawkef.

Her graceful mien, her fhape, and face,
Confefs'd her of no mortal race :
And then fo nice, and fo genteel;
Such cleanliness from head to heel:
No humours grofs, or frowzy fteams,
No noifome whiffs, or fweaty ftreams,
Before, behind, above, below,

Could from her taintlefs Body flow:
Would fo difcreetly things difpofe,

None ever faw her pluck a rofe.

Her deareft comrades never caught her
Squat on her hams, to make maid's water.
You'd fwear that fo divine a creature

Felt no neceffities of nature.

In fummer had fhe walk'd the town,
Her armpits would not stain her

At country-dances not a nofe

gown

Could in the dog-days fmell her toes.

Her milk-white hands, both palms and backs,
Like iv'ry dry, and foft as wax.

Her hands, the fofteft ever felt,

Tho' cold would burn, tho' dry would melt †.

DEAR Venus, hide this wondrous maid,

Nor let her loose to fpoil your trade.
While fhe ingroffes ev'ry swain,

You but o'er half the world can reign.

Think what a cafe all men are now in,

BUT Strephon figh'd fo loud and strong, He blew a fettlement along ;

† Though deep, yet clear, &c. Denham.

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