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And, though she felt his visage rough,
Yet in a man 'twas well enough.

The honey-moon like lightning few-
The second brought its transports toom
A third, a fourth, were not amiss
The fifth was friendship mix'd with bliss;
But, when a twelvemonth passed 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 the But dressing, patching, repartee; And, just as humour rose or fell, By turns a Nattern or a belle: 'Tis true the dress'd with modern grace Half naked at a ball or race; But when at home, at board or bed, Five greasy night-caps wrapt 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 Niort, by night, 'twas fits.or frettingBy day, 'twas gadding or coquetting.

Fond to be seen, she kept a bery Of powder'd coxcombs at her levee; The 'fquire and captain took their ftations, And twenty other near relations: Jack suck'd his pipe, and often broke A figh in fuffocating smoke;


While all their hours were pass'd between
Insulting repartee or spleen.
Thus, as her faults each day were known,
He thinks her features coarser grown;
He fancies every vice she shews
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 was grown a knowing phiz;
And tho' her fops are wond'rous civil,
He thinks her ugly as the devil.

Now, to perplex the ravellid noose,
As each a diff'rent way pursues,
While fullen or loquacious strife
Promis'd to hold them on for life,
That dire disease, whose ruthless pow'r
Withers the beauty's transient flow'r:
Lo! the small-pox, whose horrid glare
Levell'd its terrors at the fair-
And, rifling every youthful grace,
Left but the remnant of a face!

The glass grown hateful to her fight,
Reflected now a perfect fright;
Each former art she vainly tries
To bring back luftre to her eyes:
In vain the tries her paste and creams,
Ta 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 even 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 difplaces pride;
For tawdry finery is seen
A person ever neatly clean:
No more presuming on her fway,
She learns good nature every day-
Serenely gay, and strict in duty,
Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty.


This tomb, inscrib'd to gentle Parnel's name,
May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.
What heart but feels his fweetly moral lay,
That leads to truth thro' pleasure's flowery way?
Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid-
And heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid.
Needless to him the tribute we bestow,
The transitory breath of fame below
More lafting rapture from his works fhall rife,
While converts thank their poet in the Kies.



Long had I sought in vain to find A likeness for the scribbling kindThe modern scribbling kind, who write In wit, and sense, and nature's spite: 'Till, reading, I forget what day on, A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon, I think I met with something there To suit my purpose to a hair; But let us not proceed too furious First please to turn to God Mercurius: You'll find him pictur'd at full length In book the second, page the tenth: The stress of all my proofs on him I lay, And now proceed we to our fimile,

Impriinis-pray observe his hat, Wings upon either side-mark that. Well! what is it from thence we gather? Why these denote a brain of feather, A brain of feather, very right; With wit that's flighty, learning light; Such as to modern bards decreed: A just comparison-proceed.

In the next place, his feet peruseWings grow again from both his shoes; Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear, And waft his godship through the air;

And here my fimile unites-
For in a modern poet's flights,
I'm sure it may be justly said,
His feet are useful as his head.

Lastly, vouchsafe t'observe his hand,
Filled with a snake-encircled wand;
By classic authors term’d caduceus,
And highly fam'd for several uses:
To wit-moft wondrously endud,
No poppy water half so good;
For let folks only get a touch,
Its soporific virtue's such,
Tho'ne'er so much awake before,
That quickly they begin to fore;
Add too, what certain writers tell,
With this he drives men's souls to hell..

Now to apply begin we then:
His wand's a modern author's pen;
The serpents round about it twin'd
Denote him of the reptile kind;
Denote the rage with which he writes,
His frothy slaver, venom'd bites;
An equal femblance still to keep,
Alike too both conduce to Deep.
This diff'rence only, as the god
Drove souls to Tart'rus with his rod;
With his goose-quill the scribbling elf,
Instead of others, damns himself.
And here my fimile almost tript,
Yet grant a word by way of postscript
Moreover, Merc'ry had a failing:
Well! what of that? out with it-stealing;

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