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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 ;
Thus as her faults each day were known,
Now, to perplex the ravellid noose,
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.
IN BOW-STREET, COVENT-GARDEN.
Say, cruel Iris, pretty rake,
Dear mercenary beauty,
Expressive of my duty ?
Should I at once deliver,
The gift, who slights the giver ?
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;
A transitory passion :
Not less sincere than civil :
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?