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, Down from her window in the sky, Her spots are gone, her visage clears. 'Twixt earthly females and the moon, If Celia should appear too soon, 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, By a back-stroke was fell'd, Next up got a friar To appease these rude members; With his breech on the embers. While loudly he hollowed, "Would you match you with me, While you thrum'd old ballads, Sitting squat like a boor; With potatoes for sallads, 12 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,A For instance, when the lily skips 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 chang'd their ground. The black, which would not be confin'd, 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, 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 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: She ventures now to lift the sash; 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. 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. * Portugal.-H. And this is fair Diana's case; For all astrologers maintain, While Partridge* wisely shows the cause But Gadbury, in art profound, From her pale cheeks pretends to show, But let the cause be what it will, Yet, as she wastes, she grows discreet, For sure, if this be Luna's fate, 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! THE PROGRESS OF POETRY. THE farmer's goose, who in the stubble Soon make my dame grow lank and spare, And scorns the ground, and upward springs; Hear sounds harmonious from the skies. The third night's profits of his play; |