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ALEXANDER POPE.

And now, unveiled, the toilet stands displayed,

Each silver vase in mystic order laid.

First, robed in white, the nymph intent adores,
With head uncovered, the cosmetic powers.
A heavenly image in the glass appears,

To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears;
The inferior priestess, at her altar's side,
Trembling begins the sacred rites of pride.
Unnumbered treasures ope at once, and here
The various offerings of the world appear;
From each she nicely culls with curious toil
And decks the goddess with the glittering spoil.
This casket India's glowing gems unlocks,
And all Arabia breathes from yonder box;

The tortoise here and elephant unite,

Transformed to combs, the speckled, and the white.
Here files of pins extend their shining rows,
Puffs, powders, patches, bibles, billets-doux.
Now awful beauty puts on all its arms;
The fair each moment rises in her charms,
Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace,
And calls forth all the wonders of her face,
Sees by degrees a purer blush arise,
And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes.
The busy sylphs surround their darling care,
These set the head, and those divide the hair,
Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the gown;
And Betty's praised for labours not her own.

JOHN GAY.

1688-1732.

THE ORIGIN OF THE FAN.

Now Venus mounts her car: she shakes the reins,
And steers her turtles to Cytheria's plains;
Straight to the grot with graceful step she goes,
Her loose ambrosial hair behind her flows;
The swelling bellows heave for breath no more,
All drop their silent hammers on the floor;
In deep suspense the mighty labour stands,
While thus the goddess spoke her mild commands.
"Industrious Loves! your present toils forbear,
A more important task demands your care;
Long has the scheme employed my thoughtful mind,
By judgment ripened, and by time refined.
That glorious bird have ye not often seen
Who draws the car of the Celestial Queen?
Have ye not oft surveyed his varying dyes,
His tail all gilded o'er with Argus' eyes?
Have ye not seen him in the sunny day
Unfurl his plumes, and all his pride display,
Then suddenly contract his dazzling train,
And with long-trailing feathers sweep the plain?
Learn from this hint, let this instruct your art:
Thin taper sticks must from one centre part;
Let these into the quadrant's form divide,
The spreading ribs with snowy paper hide;

JOHN GAY.

Here shall the pencil bid its colours flow,
And make a miniature creation grow.
Let the machine in equal foldings close,
And now its plaited surface wide dispose;
So shall the fair her idle hand employ,
And grace each motion with the restless toy,
With various play bid grateful zephyrs rise,
While love in every grateful zephyr flies."

The master Cupid traces out the lines,
And with judicious hand the draught designs;
The expecting Loves with joy the model view,
And the joint labour eagerly pursue.
Some slit their arrows with the nicest art,
And into sticks convert the shivered dart;
The breathing bellows wake the sleeping fire,
Blow off the cinders, and the sparks aspire;
Their arrows' point they soften in the flame,
And sounding hammers break its barbèd frame:
Of this the little pin they neatly mould,
From whence their arms the spreading sticks unfold.
In equal plaits they now the paper bend,
And at just distance the wide ribs extend;
Then on the frame they mount the limber screen,
And finish instantly the new machine.

The goddess, pleased, the curious work receives, Remounts her chariot, and the grotto leaves; With the light Fan she moves the yielding air, And gales, till then unknown, play round the fair.

RICHARD SAVAGE.

1698-1743.

TO A YOUNG LADY.

POLLY! from me, though now a love-sick youth,
Nay, though a poet, hear the voice of Truth.
Polly! you're not a beauty, yet you're pretty;
So grave, yet gay; so silly, yet so witty;
A heart of softness, yet a tongue of satire;
You've cruelty, yet, ev'n with that, good-nature:
Now you are free, and now reserved awhile;
Now a forced frown betrays a willing smile.
Reproached for absence, yet your sight denied ;
My tongue you silence, yet my silence chide.
How would you praise me, should your sex defame!
Yet, should they praise, grow jealous, and exclaim.
If I despair, with some kind look you bless;
But if I hope, at once all hope suppress.

You scorn, yet should my passion change or fail,
Too late you'd whimper out a softer tale.
You love, yet from your lover's wish retire;
Doubt, yet discern; deny, and yet desire.

Such, Polly! are your sex-part truth, part fiction;
Some thought, much whim, and all a contradiction.

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SEE yonder hallowed fane;-the pious work

Of names once famed, now dubious or forgot,
And buried 'midst the wreck of things which were;
There lie interred the more illustrious dead.

The wind is up: hark, how it howls! Methinks

Till now I never heard a sound so dreary:

Doors creak, and windows clap, and night's foul bird, Rocked in the spire, screams loud; the gloomy aisles, Black plastered, and hung round with shreds of 'scutcheons, And tattered coats of arms, send back the sound,

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