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Need we expose to vulgar sight The raptures of the bridal night ? Need we intrude on hallow'd ground, Or draw the curtains close around ? Let it suffice, that each had charms; He clasp'd a goddess in his arms; And, though she felt his usage rough, Yet in a man 'twas well enough.

The honey-moon like lightning flew : The second brought its transports too. A third, a fourth, were not amiss, The fifth was friendship mix'd with bliss; But, when a twelvemonth pass'd away, Jack found his goddess made of clay : Found half the charms that deck'd her face Arose from powder, shreds, or lace; But still the worst remain'd behind, That very face had robb'd her mind.

Skill'd in no other arts was she, But dressing, patching, repartee; And, just as humour rose or fell, By turns a slattern or a belle ; 'Tis true she dress'd with modern grace, Half naked at a ball or race ; But when at home, at board or bed, Five greasy night-caps wrapp'd her head. Could so much beauty condescend To be a dull domestic friend? Could any curtain-lectures bring To decency so fine a thing ?

In short, by night 'twas fits or fretting ;
By day 'twas gadding or coquetting.
Fond to be seen, she kept a bevy
Of powder'd coxcombs at her levee;
The 'squire and captain took their stations,
And twenty other near relations ;
Jack suck'd his pipe, and often broke
A sigh in suffocating smoke;
While all their hours were past between
Insulting repartee or spleen.

Thus as her faults each day were known,
He thinks her features coarser grown:
He fancies every vice she shows,
Or thins her lip, or points her nose :
Whenever rage or envy rise,
How wide her mouth how wild her eyes;
He knows not how, but so it is,
Her face is grown a knowing phiz ;
And, though her fops are wondrous civil,
He thinks her ugly as the devil.

Now, to perplex the ravellid noose,
As each a different way pursues,
While sullen or loquacious strife
Promis'd to hold them on for life,
That dire disease whose ruthless power
Withers the beauty's transient flower,
Lo! the small-pox, whose horrid glare
Levell'd its terrors at the fair ;
And, rifing every youthful grace,
Left but the remnant of a face.

The glass, grown hateful to her sight, Reflected now a perfect fright : Each former art she vainly tries, To bring back lustre to her eyes. In vain she tries her paste and creams, To smooth her skin, or hide its seams; Her country beaux and city cousins, Lovers no more, flew off by dozens : The 'squire himself was seen to yield, And e'en the captain quit the field.

Poor madam now, condemn'd to hack The rest of life with anxious Jack, Perceiving others fairly flown, Attempted pleasing him alone. Jack soon was dazzled to behold Her present face surpass the old ; With modesty her cheeks are dy'd, Humility displaces pride ; For tawdry finery, is seen A person ever neatly clean: No more presuming on her sway, She learns good-nature every day: Serenely gay,and strict in duty, Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty.

THE GIFT.

TO IRIS,

IN BOW-STREET, COVENT-GARDEN.

Say, cruel Iris, pretty rake,

Dear mercenary beauty,
What annual off'ring shall I make,

Expressive of my duty ?
My heart, a victim to thine eyes,

Should I at once deliver,
Say, would the angry fair-one prize

The gift, who slights the giver ?
A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,

My rivals give-and let 'em. If gems, or gold, impart a joy,

I'll give them-when I get 'em. I'll give—but not the full-blown rose,

Or rose-bud more in fashion;
Such short-liv'd off'rings but disclose

A transitory passion :
I'll give thee something yet unpaid,

Not less sincere than civil :
I'll give theemah! too charming maid,
I'll give thee-to the devil.

THE LOGICIANS REFUTED.

(IN IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFT.)

LOGICIANS have but ill defin'd As rational the human mind: Reason they say, belongs to man; But let them prove it if they can. Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius, By ratiocinations specious, Have strove to prove with great precision, Wise definition and division, Homo est ratione præditum ; But for my soul I cannot credit 'em, And must in spite of them maintain, That man and all his ways are vain; And that this boasted lord of nature Is both a weak and erring creature ; That instinct is a surer guide Than reason, boasting mortals' pride; And that brute beasts are far before 'em, Deus est anima brutorum. Who ever knew an honest brute At law his neighbour prosecute, Bring action for assault and battery, Or friend beguile with lies and flattery?

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