[Footnote 1: The Goddess of Justice, the last of the celestials to leave
     the earth. "Ultima caelestum terras Astraea reliquit," Ovid, "Met.," i,
     150.—W. E .B.]

     [Footnote 2: Highwaymen of that time were so called.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 3: Richard Tighe, Esq. He was a member of the Irish Parliament,
     and held by Dean Swift in utter abomination. He is several times
     mentioned in the Journal to Stella: how he used to beat his wife, and
     how she deserved it. "Prose Works," vol. ii, pp. 229, 242,
     etc.—W. E. B.]

     "Sunt quibus in Satirâ," etc.

     Since there are persons who complain
     There's too much satire in my vein;
     That I am often found exceeding
     The rules of raillery and breeding;
     With too much freedom treat my betters,
     Not sparing even men of letters:
     You, who are skill'd in lawyers' lore,
     What's your advice? Shall I give o'er?
     Nor ever fools or knaves expose,
     Either in verse or humorous prose:
     And to avoid all future ill,
     In my scrutoire lock up my quill?

       Since you are pleased to condescend
     To ask the judgment of a friend,
     Your case consider'd, I must think
     You should withdraw from pen and ink,
     Forbear your poetry and jokes,
     And live like other Christian folks;
     Or if the Muses must inspire
     Your fancy with their pleasing fire,
     Take subjects safer for your wit
     Than those on which you lately writ.
     Commend the times, your thoughts correct,
     And follow the prevailing sect;
     Assert that Hyde,[2] in writing story,
     Shows all the malice of a Tory;
     While Burnet,[3] in his deathless page,
     Discovers freedom without rage.
     To Woolston[4] recommend our youth,
     For learning, probity, and truth;
     That noble genius, who unbinds
     The chains which fetter freeborn minds;
     Redeems us from the slavish fears
     Which lasted near two thousand years;
     He can alone the priesthood humble,
     Make gilded spires and altars tumble.

       Must I commend against my conscience,
     Such stupid blasphemy and nonsense;
     To such a subject tune my lyre,
     And sing like one of Milton's choir,
     Where devils to a vale retreat,
     And call the laws of Wisdom, Fate;
     Lament upon their hapless fall,
     That Force free Virtue should enthrall?
     Or shall the charms of Wealth and Power
     Make me pollute the Muses' bower?

       As from the tripod of Apollo,
     Hear from my desk the words that follow:
     "Some, by philosophers misled,
     Must honour you alive and dead;
     And such as know what Greece has writ,
     Must taste your irony and wit;
     While most that are, or would be great,
     Must dread your pen, your person hate;
     And you on Drapier's hill[5] must lie,
     And there without a mitre die."

     [Footnote 1: Mr. Lindsay.—F.]

     [Footnote 2: See Clarendon's "History of the Rebellion."]

     [Footnote 3: In his "History of his own Time," and "History of the
     Reformation."]

     [Footnote 4: An enthusiast and a freethinker. For a full account of him,
     see "Dictionary of National Biography." His later works on the Miracles
     caused him to be prosecuted, fined, and imprisoned. He died in
     1733.—W.E.B.]

     [Footnote 5: In the county of Armagh.—F.]

     1729

     An ass's hoof alone can hold
     That poisonous juice, which kills by cold.
     Methought, when I this poem read,
     No vessel but an ass's head
     Such frigid fustian could contain;
     I mean, the head without the brain.
     The cold conceits, the chilling thoughts,
     Went down like stupifying draughts;
     I found my head begin to swim,
     A numbness crept through every limb.
     In haste, with imprecations dire,
     I threw the volume in the fire;
     When, (who could think?) though cold as ice,
     It burnt to ashes in a trice.
       How could I more enhance its fame?
     Though born in snow, it died in flame.

     Our brethren of England, who love us so dear,
       And in all they do for us so kindly do mean,
     (A blessing upon them!) have sent us this year,
       For the good of our church, a true English dean.
     A holier priest ne'er was wrapt up in crape,
     The worst you can say, he committed a rape.

     In his journey to Dublin, he lighted at Chester,
       And there he grew fond of another man's wife;
     Burst into her chamber and would have caress'd her;
       But she valued her honour much more than her life.
     She bustled, and struggled, and made her escape
     To a room full of guests, for fear of a rape.

     The dean he pursued, to recover his game;
       And now to attack her again he prepares:
     But the company stood in defence of the dame,
       They cudgell'd, and cuff'd him, and kick'd him down stairs.
     His deanship was now in a damnable scrape,
     And this was no time for committing a rape.

     To Dublin he comes, to the bagnio he goes,
       And orders the landlord to bring him a whore;
     No scruple came on him his gown to expose,
       'Twas what all his life he had practised before.
     He made himself drunk with the juice of the grape,
     And got a good clap, but committed no rape.

     The dean, and his landlord, a jolly comrade,
       Resolved for a fortnight to swim in delight;
     For why, they had both been brought up to the trade
       Of drinking all day, and of whoring all night.
     His landlord was ready his deanship to ape
     In every debauch but committing a rape.

     This Protestant zealot, this English divine,
       In church and in state was of principles sound;
     Was truer than Steele to the Hanover line,
       And grieved that a Tory should live above ground.
     Shall a subject so loyal be hang'd by the nape,
     For no other crime but committing a rape?

     By old Popish canons, as wise men have penn'd 'em,
       Each priest had a concubine jure ecclesiae;
     Who'd be Dean of Fernes without a commendam?
       And precedents we can produce, if it please ye:
     Then why should the dean, when whores are so cheap,
     Be put to the peril and toil of a rape?

     If fortune should please but to take such a crotchet,
       (To thee I apply, great Smedley's successor,)
     To give thee lawn sleeves, a mitre, and rochet,
       Whom wouldst thou resemble? I leave thee a guesser.
     But I only behold thee in Atherton's[2] shape,
     For sodomy hang'd; as thou for a rape.

     Ah! dost thou not envy the brave Colonel Chartres,
       Condemn'd for thy crime at threescore and ten?
     To hang him, all England would lend him their garters,
       Yet he lives, and is ready to ravish again.[3]
     Then throttle thyself with an ell of strong tape,
     For thou hast not a groat to atone for a rape.

     The dean he was vex'd that his whores were so willing;
       He long'd for a girl that would struggle and squall;
     He ravish'd her fairly, and saved a good shilling;
       But here was to pay the devil and all.
     His troubles and sorrows now come in a heap,
     And hang'd he must be for committing a rape.

     If maidens are ravish'd, it is their own choice:
       Why are they so wilful to struggle with men?
     If they would but lie quiet, and stifle their voice,
       No devil nor dean could ravish them then.
     Nor would there be need of a strong hempen cape
     Tied round the dean's neck for committing a rape.

     Our church and our state dear England maintains,
       For which all true Protestant hearts should be glad:
     She sends us our bishops, our judges, and deans,
       And better would give us, if better she had.
     But, lord! how the rabble will stare and will gape,
     When the good English dean is hang'd up for a rape!

     [Footnote 1: "DUBLIN, June 6. The Rev. Dean Sawbridge, having surrendered
     himself on his indictment for a rape, was arraigned at the bar of the
     Court of King's Bench, and is to be tried next Monday."—London Evening
     Post, June 16, 1730. "DUBLIN, June 13. The Rev. Thomas Sawbridge, Dean
     of Fernes, who was indicted for ravishing Susanna Runkard, and whose
     trial was put off for some time past, on motion of the king's counsel on
     behalf of the said Susanna, was yesterday tried in the Court of King's
     Bench, and acquitted. It is reported, that the Dean intends to indict her
     for perjury, he being in the county of Wexford when she swore the rape
     was committed against her in the city of Dublin."—Daily Post-Boy, June
     23, 1730.—Nichols.]

     [Footnote 2: A Bishop of Waterford, sent from England a hundred years
     ago, was hanged at Arbor-hill, near Dublin.—See "The penitent death of
     a woful sinner, or the penitent death of John Atherton, executed at
     Dublin the 5th of December, 1640. With some annotations upon several
     passages in it". As also the sermon, with some further enlargements,
     preached at his burial. By Nicholas Barnard, Dean of Ardagh, in Ireland.

     "Quis in seculo peccavit enormius Paulo? Quis in religione gravius
     Petro? illi tamen poenitentiam assequuti sunt non solum ministerium sed
     magisterium sanctitatis. Nolite ergo ante tempus judicare, quia fortasse
     quos vos laudatis, Deus reprehendit, et quos vos reprehenditis, ille
     laudabit, priminovissimi, et novissimi primi. Petr. Chrysolog. Dublin,
     Printed by the Society of Stationers, 1641."]

     [Footnote 3: This trial took place in 1723; but being only found guilty
     of an assault, with intent to commit the crime, the worthy colonel was
     fined £300 to the private party prosecuting. See a full account of
     Chartres in the notes to Pope's "Moral Essays," Epistle III, and the
     Satirical Epitaph by Arbuthnot. Carruthers' Edition.—W. E. B.]

     A QUIBBLING EPIGRAM. 1730

     The thresher Duck[1] could o'er the queen prevail,
     The proverb says, "no fence against a flail."
     From threshing corn he turns to thresh his brains;
     For which her majesty allows him grains:
     Though 'tis confest, that those, who ever saw
     His poems, think them all not worth a straw!
       Thrice happy Duck, employ'd in threshing stubble,
     Thy toil is lessen'd, and thy profits double.

     [Footnote 1: Who was appointed by Queen Caroline librarian to a small
     collection of books in a building called Merlin's Cave, in the Royal
     Gardens of Richmond.
       "How shall we fill a library with wit,
       When Merlin's cave is half unfurnish'd yet?"
POPE, Imitations of Horace, ii, Ep. 1.—W. E. B.]

     Five hours (and who can do it less in?)
     By haughty Celia spent in dressing;
     The goddess from her chamber issues,
     Array'd in lace, brocades, and tissues.
       Strephon, who found the room was void,
     And Betty otherwise employ'd,
     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 smock appear'd,
     Beneath the arm-pits well besmear'd;
     Strephon, the rogue, display'd it wide,
     And turn'd it round on ev'ry side:
     On such a point, few words are best,
     And Strephon bids us guess the rest;
     But swears, how damnably the men lie
     In calling Celia sweet and cleanly.
       Now listen, while he next produces
     The various combs for various uses;
     Fill'd up with dirt so closely fixt,
     No brush could force a way betwixt;
     A paste of composition rare,
     Sweat, dandriff, powder, lead, and hair:
     A fore-head cloth with oil upon't,
     To smooth the wrinkles on her front:
     Here alum-flour, to stop the steams
     Exhaled from sour unsavoury streams:
     There night-gloves made of Tripsey's hide,
     [1]Bequeath'd by Tripsey when she died;
     With puppy-water, beauty's help,
     Distil'd from Tripsey's darling whelp.
     Here gallipots and vials placed,
     Some fill'd with washes, some with paste;
     Some with pomatums, paints, and slops,
     And ointments good for scabby chops.
     Hard by a filthy bason stands,
     Foul'd with the scouring of her hands:
     The bason takes whatever comes,
     The scrapings from her teeth and gums,
     A nasty compound of all hues,
     For here she spits, and here she spues.
       But, oh! it turn'd poor Strephon's bowels
     When he beheld and smelt the towels,
     Begumm'd, bematter'd, and beslim'd,
     With dirt, and sweat, and ear-wax grim'd;
     No object Strephon's eye escapes;
     Here petticoats in frouzy heaps;
     Nor be the handkerchiefs forgot,
     All varnish'd o'er with snuff and snot.
     The stockings why should I expose,
     Stain'd with the moisture of her toes,[2]
     Or greasy coifs, and pinners reeking,
     Which Celia slept at least a week in?
     A pair of tweezers next he found,
     To pluck her brows in arches round;
     Or hairs that sink the forehead low,
     Or on her chin like bristles grow.
       The virtues we must not let pass
     Of Celia's magnifying glass;
     When frighted Strephon cast his eye on't,
     It shew'd the visage of a giant:
     A glass that can to sight disclose
     The smallest worm in Celia's nose,
     And faithfully direct her nail
     To squeeze 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 must you needs describe the chest?
     That careless wench! no creature warn her
     To move it out from yonder corner!
     But leave it standing full in sight,
     For you to exercise your spight?
     In vain the workman shew'd his wit,
     With rings and hinges counterfeit,
     To make it seem in this disguise
     A cabinet to vulgar eyes:
     Which Strephon ventur'd to look in,
     Resolved to go thro' thick and thin.
     He lifts the lid: there needs no more,
     He smelt it all the time before.
       As, from within Pandora's box,
     When Epimetheus op'd the locks,
     A sudden universal crew
     Of human evils upward flew;
     He still was comforted to find
     That hope at last remain'd behind:
     So Strephon, lifting up the lid,
     To view what in the chest was hid,
     The vapours flew from up the vent;
     But Strephon, cautious, never meant
     The bottom of the pan to grope,
     And foul his hands in search of hope.
     O! ne'er may such a vile machine
     Be once in Celia's chamber seen!
     O! may she better learn to keep
     Those "secrets of the hoary deep." [3]
       As mutton-cutlets, prime of meat,
     Which, tho' with art you salt and beat,
     As laws of cookery require,
     And toast them at the clearest fire;
     If from upon the hopeful chops
     The fat upon a cinder drops,
     To stinking smoke it turns the flame,
     Pois'ning the flesh from whence it came,
     And up exhales a greasy stench,
     For which you curse the careless wench:
     So things which must not be exprest,
     When drop'd into the reeking chest,
     Send up an excremental smell
     To taint the part from whence they fell:
     The petticoats and gown perfume,
     And waft a stink round ev'ry room.
       Thus finishing his grand survey,
     Disgusted Strephon slunk away;
     Repeating in his amorous fits,
     "Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia sh—!"
     But Vengeance, goddess never sleeping,
     Soon punish'd Strephon for his peeping:
     His foul imagination links
     Each dame he sees with all her stinks;
     And, if unsavoury odours fly,
     Conceives a lady standing by.
     All women his description fits,
     And both ideas jump like wits;
     By vicious fancy coupled fast,
     And still appearing in contrast.
       I pity wretched Strephon, blind
     To all the charms of woman kind.
     Should I the Queen of Love refuse,
     Because she rose from stinking ooze?
     To him that looks behind the scene,
     Statira's but some pocky quean.
       When Celia in her glory shews,
     If Strephon would but stop his nose,
     (Who now so impiously blasphemes
     Her ointments, daubs, and paints, and creams,
     Her washes, slops, and every clout,
     With which he makes so foul a rout;)
     He soon would learn to think like me,
     And bless his ravish'd sight to see
     Such order from confusion sprung,
     Such gaudy tulips raised from dung.

     [Footnote 1: Var. "The bitch bequeath'd her when she died."—1732.]

     [Footnote 2: Var. "marks of stinking toes."—1732.]

     [Footnote 3: Milton, "Paradise Lost," ii, 890-1:
       "Before their eyes in sudden view appear
       The secrets of the hoary deep."—W. E. B.]

     If neither brass nor marble can withstand
     The mortal force of Time's destructive hand;
     If mountains sink to vales, if cities die,
     And lessening rivers mourn their fountains dry;
     When my old cassock (said a Welsh divine)
     Is out at elbows, why should I repine?

     A TRAGICAL ELEGY

     1731

     Two college sophs of Cambridge growth,
     Both special wits and lovers both,
     Conferring, as they used to meet,
     On love, and books, in rapture sweet;
     (Muse, find me names to fit my metre,
     Cassinus this, and t'other Peter.)
     Friend Peter to Cassinus goes,
     To chat a while, and warm his nose:
     But such a sight was never seen,
     The lad lay swallow'd up in spleen.
     He seem'd as just crept out of bed;
     One greasy stocking round his head,
     The other he sat down to darn,
     With threads of different colour'd yarn;
     His breeches torn, exposing wide
     A ragged shirt and tawny hide.
     Scorch'd were his shins, his legs were bare,
     But well embrown'd with dirt and hair
     A rug was o'er his shoulders thrown,
     (A rug, for nightgown he had none,)
     His jordan stood in manner fitting
     Between his legs, to spew or spit in;
     His ancient pipe, in sable dyed,
     And half unsmoked, lay by his side.
       Him thus accoutred Peter found,
     With eyes in smoke and weeping drown'd;
     The leavings of his last night's pot
     On embers placed, to drink it hot.
       Why, Cassy, thou wilt dose thy pate:
     What makes thee lie a-bed so late?
     The finch, the linnet, and the thrush,
     Their matins chant in every bush;
     And I have heard thee oft salute
     Aurora with thy early flute.
     Heaven send thou hast not got the hyps!
     How! not a word come from thy lips?
       Then gave him some familiar thumps,
     A college joke to cure the dumps.
       The swain at last, with grief opprest,
     Cried, Celia! thrice, and sigh'd the rest.
       Dear Cassy, though to ask I dread,
     Yet ask I must—is Celia dead?
       How happy I, were that the worst!
     But I was fated to be curst!
       Come, tell us, has she play'd the whore?
       O Peter, would it were no more!
       Why, plague confound her sandy locks!
     Say, has the small or greater pox
     Sunk down her nose, or seam'd her face?
     Be easy, 'tis a common case.
       O Peter! beauty's but a varnish,
     Which time and accidents will tarnish:
     But Celia has contrived to blast
     Those beauties that might ever last.
     Nor can imagination guess,
     Nor eloquence divine express,
     How that ungrateful charming maid
     My purest passion has betray'd:
     Conceive the most envenom'd dart
     To pierce an injured lover's heart.
       Why, hang her; though she seem'd so coy,
     I know she loves the barber's boy.
       Friend Peter, this I could excuse,
     For every nymph has leave to choose;
     Nor have I reason to complain,
     She loves a more deserving swain.
     But, oh! how ill hast thou divined
     A crime, that shocks all human kind;
     A deed unknown to female race,
     At which the sun should hide his face:
     Advice in vain you would apply—
     Then leave me to despair and die.
     Ye kind Arcadians, on my urn
     These elegies and sonnets burn;
     And on the marble grave these rhymes,
     A monument to after-times—
     "Here Cassy lies, by Celia slain,
     And dying, never told his pain."
       Vain empty world, farewell. But hark,
     The loud Cerberian triple bark;
     And there—behold Alecto stand,
     A whip of scorpions in her hand:
     Lo, Charon from his leaky wherry
     Beckoning to waft me o'er the ferry:
     I come! I come! Medusa see,
     Her serpents hiss direct at me.
     Begone; unhand me, hellish fry:
     "Avaunt—ye cannot say 'twas I."[1]
       Dear Cassy, thou must purge and bleed;
     I fear thou wilt be mad indeed.
     But now, by friendship's sacred laws,
     I here conjure thee, tell the cause;
     And Celia's horrid fact relate:
     Thy friend would gladly share thy fate.
       To force it out, my heart must rend;
     Yet when conjured by such a friend—
     Think, Peter, how my soul is rack'd!
     These eyes, these eyes, beheld the fact.
     Now bend thine ear, since out it must;
     But, when thou seest me laid in dust,
     The secret thou shalt ne'er impart,
     Not to the nymph that keeps thy heart;
      (How would her virgin soul bemoan
     A crime to all her sex unknown!)
     Nor whisper to the tattling reeds
     The blackest of all female deeds;
     Nor blab it on the lonely rocks,
     Where Echo sits, and listening mocks;
     Nor let the Zephyr's treacherous gale
     Through Cambridge waft the direful tale;
     Nor to the chattering feather'd race
     Discover Celia's foul disgrace.
     But, if you fail, my spectre dread,
     Attending nightly round your bed—
     And yet I dare confide in you;
     So take my secret, and adieu:
     Nor wonder how I lost my wits:
     Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia sh—!

     [Footnote 1:  From "Macbeth," in Act III, Sc. iv:
       "Thou canst not say, I did it:" etc.
       "Avaunt, and quit my sight."]

     Corinna, pride of Drury-Lane,
     For whom no shepherd sighs in vain;
     Never did Covent-Garden boast
     So bright a batter'd strolling toast!
     No drunken rake to pick her up,
     No cellar where on tick to sup;
     Returning at the midnight hour,
     Four stories climbing to her bower;
     Then, seated 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 mouse's hide
     Stuck on with art on either side,
     Pulls off with care, and first displays 'em,
     Then in a play-book smoothly lays 'em.
     Now dext'rously her plumpers draws,
     That serve to fill her hollow jaws,
     Untwists a wire, and from her gums
     A set of teeth completely comes;
     Pulls out the rags contrived to prop
     Her flabby dugs, and down they drop.
     Proceeding on, the lovely goddess
     Unlaces next her steel-ribb'd bodice,
     Which, by the operator's skill,
     Press down the lumps, the hollows fill.
     Up goes her hand, and off she slips
     The bolsters that supply her hips;
     With gentlest touch she next explores
     Her chancres, issues, running sores;
     Effects of many a sad disaster,
     And then to each applies a plaster:
     But must, 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 she sleeps;
     And then between two blankets creeps.
     With pains of love tormented lies;
     Or, if she chance to close her eyes,
     Of Bridewell[1] and the Compter[1] dreams,
     And feels the lash, and faintly screams;
     Or, by a faithless bully drawn,
     At some hedge-tavern lies in pawn;
     Or to Jamaica[2] seems transported
     Alone, and by no planter courted;
     Or, near Fleet-ditch's[3] oozy brinks,
     Surrounded with a hundred stinks,
     Belated, seems on watch to lie,
     And snap some cully passing by;
     Or, struck with fear, her fancy runs
     On watchmen, constables, and duns,
     From whom she meets with frequent rubs;
     But never from religious clubs;
     Whose favour she is sure to find,
     Because she pays them all in kind.
       Corinna wakes. A dreadful sight!
     Behold the ruins of the night!
     A wicked rat her plaster stole,
     Half eat, and dragg'd it to his hole.
     The crystal eye, alas! was miss'd;
     And puss had on her plumpers p—st,
     A pigeon pick'd her issue-pease:
     And Shock her tresses fill'd with fleas.
       The nymph, though in this mangled plight
     Must ev'ry morn her limbs unite.
     But how shall I describe her arts
     To re-collect the scatter'd parts?
     Or show the anguish, toil, and pain,
     Of gath'ring up herself again?
     The bashful Muse will never bear
     In such a scene to interfere.
     Corinna, in the morning dizen'd,
     Who sees, will spew; who smells, be poison'd.

     [Footnote 1: See Cunningham's "Handbook of London." Bridewell was the
     Prison to which harlots were sent, and were made to beat hemp and
     pick oakum and were whipped if they did not perform their tasks. See
     the Plate in Hogarth's "Harlot's Progress." The Prison has, happily,
     been cleared away. The hall, court room, etc., remain at 14, New
     Bridge Street. The Compter, a similar Prison, was also abolished.
     For details of these abominations, see "London Past and Present,"
     by Wheatley.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2: Jamaica seems to have been regarded as a place of exile. See
     "A quiet life and a good name," ante, p. 152.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 3:  See ante, p. 78, "Descripton of a City
     Shower."—W. E. B.]

     Of Chloe all the town has rung,
     By ev'ry size of poets sung:
     So beautiful a nymph appears
     But once in twenty thousand years;
     By Nature form'd with nicest care,
     And faultless to a single hair.
     Her graceful mien, her shape, and face,
     Confess'd her of no mortal race:
     And then so nice, and so genteel;
     Such cleanliness from head to heel;
     No humours gross, or frouzy steams,
     No noisome whiffs, or sweaty streams,
     Before, behind, above, below,
     Could from her taintless body flow:
     Would so discreetly things dispose,
     None ever saw her pluck a rose.[1]
     Her dearest comrades never caught her
     Squat on her hams to make maid's water:
     You'd swear that so divine a creature
     Felt no necessities of nature.
     In summer had she walk'd the town,
     Her armpits would not stain her gown:
     At country dances, not a nose
     Could in the dog-days smell her toes.
     Her milk-white hands, both palms and backs,
     Like ivory dry, and soft as wax.
     Her hands, the softest ever felt,
     [2] Though cold would burn, though dry would melt.
       Dear Venus, hide this wond'rous maid,
     Nor let her loose to spoil your trade.
     While she engrosses ev'ry swain,
     You but o'er half the world can reign.
     Think what a case all men are now in,
     What ogling, sighing, toasting, vowing!
     What powder'd wigs! what flames and darts!
     What hampers full of bleeding hearts!
     What sword-knots! what poetic strains!
     What billets-doux, and clouded canes!
       But Strephon sigh'd so loud and strong,
     He blew a settlement along;
     And bravely drove his rivals down,
     With coach and six, and house in town.
     The bashful nymph no more withstands,
     Because her dear papa commands.
     The charming couple now unites:
     Proceed we to the marriage rites.
       Imprimis, at the Temple porch
     Stood Hymen with a flaming torch:
     The smiling Cyprian Goddess brings
     Her infant loves with purple wings:
     And pigeons billing, sparrows treading,
     Fair emblems of a fruitful wedding.
     The Muses next in order follow,
     Conducted by their squire, Apollo:
     Then Mercury with silver tongue;
     And Hebe, goddess ever young.
     Behold, the bridegroom and his bride
     Walk hand in hand, and side by side;
     She, by the tender Graces drest,
     But he, by Mars, in scarlet vest.
     The nymph was cover'd with her flammeum[3],
     And Phoebus sung th'epithalamium[4].
     And last, to make the matter sure,
     Dame Juno brought a priest demure.
     [5]Luna was absent, on pretence
     Her time was not till nine months hence.
     The rites perform'd, the parson paid,
     In state return'd the grand parade;
     With loud huzzas from all the boys,
     That now the pair must crown their joys.
       But still the hardest part remains:
     Strephon had long perplex'd his brains,
     How with so high a nymph he might
     Demean himself the wedding-night:
     For, as he view'd his person round,
     Mere mortal flesh was all he found:
     His hand, his neck, his mouth, and feet,
     Were duly wash'd, to keep them sweet;
     With other parts, that shall be nameless,
     The ladies else might think me shameless.
     The weather and his love were hot;
     And, should he struggle, I know what—
     Why, let it go, if I must tell it—
     He'll sweat, and then the nymph may smell it;
     While she, a goddess dyed in grain,
     Was unsusceptible of stain,
     And, Venus-like, her fragrant skin
     Exhaled ambrosia from within.
     Can such a deity endure
     A mortal human touch impure?
     How did the humbled swain detest
     His prickly beard, and hairy breast!
     His night-cap, border'd round with lace,
     Could give no softness to his face.
       Yet, if the goddess could be kind,
     What endless raptures must he find!
     And goddesses have now and then
     Come down to visit mortal men;
     To visit and to court them too:
     A certain goddess, God knows who,
     (As in a book he heard it read,)
     Took Col'nel Peleus[6] to her bed.
     But what if he should lose his life
     By vent'ring on his heavenly wife!
     (For Strephon could remember well,
     That once he heard a school-boy tell,
     How Semele,[7] of mortal race,
     By thunder died in Jove's embrace.)
     And what if daring Strephon dies
     By lightning shot from Chloe's eyes!
       While these reflections fill'd his head,
     The bride was put in form to bed:
     He follow'd, stript, and in he crept,
     But awfully his distance kept.
       Now, "ponder well, ye parents dear;"
     Forbid your daughters guzzling beer;
     And make them ev'ry afternoon
     Forbear their tea, or drink it soon;
     That, ere to bed they venture up,
     They may discharge it ev'ry sup;
     If not, they must in evil plight
     Be often forc'd to rise at night.
     Keep them to wholesome food confin'd,
     Nor let them taste what causes wind:
     'Tis this the sage of Samos means,
     Forbidding his disciples beans.[8]
     O! think what evils must ensue;
     Miss Moll, the jade, will burn it blue;
     And, when she once has got the art,
     She cannot help it for her heart;
     But out it flies, even when she meets
     Her bridegroom in the wedding-sheets.
     Carminative and diuretic[9]
     Will damp all passion sympathetic;
     And Love such nicety requires,
     One blast will put out all his fires.
     Since husbands get behind the scene,
     The wife should study to be clean;
     Nor give the smallest room to guess
     The time when wants of nature press;
     But after marriage practise more
     Decorum than she did before;
     To keep her spouse deluded still,
     And make him fancy what she will.
       In bed we left the married pair;
     'Tis time to show how things went there.
     Strephon, who had been often told
     That fortune still assists the bold,
     Resolved to make the first attack;
     But Chloe drove him fiercely back.
     How could a nymph so chaste as Chloe,
     With constitution cold and snowy,
     Permit a brutish man to touch her?
     Ev'n lambs by instinct fly the butcher.
     Resistance on the wedding-night
     Is what our maidens claim by right;
     And Chloe, 'tis by all agreed,
     Was maid in thought, in word, and deed.
     Yet some assign a different reason;
     That Strephon chose no proper season.
       Say, fair ones, must I make a pause,
     Or freely tell the secret cause?
       Twelve cups of tea (with grief I speak)
     Had now constrain'd the nymph to leak.
     This point must needs be settled first:
     The bride must either void or burst.
     Then see the dire effects of pease;
     Think what can give the colic ease.
     The nymph oppress'd before, behind,
     As ships are toss'd by waves and wind,
     Steals out her hand, by nature led,
     And brings a vessel into bed;
     Fair utensil, as smooth and white
     As Chloe's skin, almost as bright.
       Strephon, who heard the fuming rill
     As from a mossy cliff distil,
     Cried out, Ye Gods! what sound is this?
     Can Chloe, heavenly Chloe,——?
     But when he smelt a noisome steam
     Which oft attends that lukewarm stream;
     (Salerno both together joins,[10]
     As sov'reign med'cines for the loins:)
     And though contriv'd, we may suppose,
     To slip his ears, yet struck his nose;
     He found her while the scent increast,
     As mortal as himself at least.
     But soon, with like occasions prest
     He boldly sent his hand in quest
     (Inspired with courage from his bride)
     To reach the pot on t'other side;
     And, as he fill'd the reeking vase;
     Let fly a rouser in her face.
       The little Cupids hov'ring round,
     (As pictures prove) with garlands crown'd,
     Abash'd at what they saw and heard,
     Flew off, nor ever more appear'd.
       Adieu to ravishing delights,
     High raptures, and romantic flights;
     To goddesses so heav'nly sweet,
     Expiring shepherds at their feet;
     To silver meads and shady bowers,
     Dress'd up with amaranthine flowers.
       How great a change! how quickly made!
     They learn to call a spade a spade.
     They soon from all constraint are freed;
     Can see each other do their need.
     On box of cedar sits the wife,
     And makes it warm for dearest life;
     And, by the beastly way of thinking,
     Find great society in stinking.
     Now Strephon daily entertains
     His Chloe in the homeliest strains;
     And Chloe, more experienc'd grown,
     With int'rest pays him back his own.
     No maid at court is less asham'd,
     Howe'er for selling bargains fam'd,
     Than she to name her parts behind,
     Or when a-bed to let out wind.
       Fair Decency, celestial maid!
     Descend from Heaven to Beauty's aid!
     Though Beauty may beget desire,
     'Tis thou must fan the Lover's fire;
     For Beauty, like supreme dominion,
     Is best supported by Opinion:
     If Decency bring no supplies,
     Opinion falls, and Beauty dies.
       To see some radiant nymph appear
     In all her glitt'ring birth-day gear,
     You think some goddess from the sky
     Descended, ready cut and dry:
     But ere you sell yourself to laughter,
     Consider well what may come after;
     For fine ideas vanish fast,
     While all the gross and filthy last.
       O Strephon, ere that fatal day
     When Chloe stole your heart away,
     Had you but through a cranny spy'd
     On house of ease your future bride,
     In all the postures of her face,
     Which nature gives in such a case;
     Distortions, groanings, strainings, heavings,
     'Twere better you had lick'd her leavings,
     Than from experience find too late
     Your goddess grown a filthy mate.
     Your fancy then had always dwelt
     On what you saw and what you smelt;
     Would still the same ideas give ye,
     As when you spy'd her on the privy;
     And, spite of Chloe's charms divine,
     Your heart had been as whole as mine.
       Authorities, both old and recent,
     Direct that women must be decent;
     And from the spouse each blemish hide,
     More than from all the world beside.
       Unjustly all our nymphs complain
     Their empire holds so short a reign;
     Is, after marriage, lost so soon,
     It hardly lasts the honey-moon:
     For, if they keep not what they caught,
     It is entirely their own fault.
     They take possession of the crown,
     And then throw all their weapons down:
     Though, by the politician's scheme,
     Whoe'er arrives at power supreme,
     Those arts, by which at first they gain it,
     They still must practise to maintain it.
       What various ways our females take
     To pass for wits before a rake!
     And in the fruitless search pursue
     All other methods but the true!
       Some try to learn polite behaviour
     By reading books against their Saviour;
     Some call it witty to reflect
     On ev'ry natural defect;
     Some shew they never want explaining
     To comprehend a double meaning.
     But sure a tell-tale out of school
     Is of all wits the greatest fool;
     Whose rank imagination fills
     Her heart, and from her lips distils;
     You'd think she utter'd from behind,
     Or at her mouth was breaking wind.
       Why is a handsome wife ador'd
     By every coxcomb but her lord?
     From yonder puppet-man inquire,
     Who wisely hides his wood and wire;
     Shows Sheba's queen completely drest,
     And Solomon in royal vest:
     But view them litter'd on the floor,
     Or strung on pegs behind the door;
     Punch is exactly of a piece
     With Lorrain's duke, and prince of Greece.
       A prudent builder should forecast
     How long the stuff is like to last;
     And carefully observe the ground,
     To build on some foundation sound.
     What house, when its materials crumble,
     Must not inevitably tumble?
     What edifice can long endure
     Raised on a basis unsecure?
     Rash mortals, ere you take a wife,
     Contrive your pile to last for life:
     Since beauty scarce endures a day,
     And youth so swiftly glides away;
     Why will you make yourself a bubble,
     To build on sand with hay and stubble?
       On sense and wit your passion found,
     By decency cemented round;
     Let prudence with good-nature strive,
     To keep esteem and love alive.
     Then come old age whene'er it will,
     Your friendship shall continue still:
     And thus a mutual gentle fire
     Shall never but with life expire.