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T

A-LA-MODE, 1754.

'HE dress, in the year fifty-three, that was worn, Is laid in the grave, and new fashions are born: Then hear what our good correfpondents advance; 'Tis the pink of the mode, and 'tis dated from France.

Let your cap be a butterfly, flightly hung on, Like the thell of a lapwing, just hatch'd, on her

crown;

Behind, like a coach-horse short dock'd cut your

hair;

Stick a flower before, fcew-whiff, with an air;
A vandike in frize your neck must surround,
Turn your lawns into gawf, let your Bruffels
be blond.

Let your ftomacher reach from shoulder to fhoulder,
And your breaft will appear much fairer and bolder.
Wear a gown, or a fack, as fancies prevail;
But with flounces and furbelows ruffle your tail.
Set your hoop, fhew your ftockings and legs to
your knees,

And leave men as little to guess as they please.
For other small ornaments, do as before;
Wear ribbands a hundred, and ruffles a fcore.
Let your talk, like your drefs, be fantastick and odd,
And you'll shine in the mall; 'tis tafte-a-la-mode.

BEAUTY

SAID Beauty to Fashion, as they fat at the

toilette,

“If I give a charm, you furely will spoil it; When you take it in hand, there's such murth'ring and mangling,

'Tis fo metamorphos'd by your fiddling and fangling,

That I fcarce know my own, when I meet it again, Such changelings you make, both of women and

men.

To confirm what I fay, look at Phrynne, or Phillis,

I'm fure that I gave 'em good roses and lilies: Now what have you done?-Let the world be the judge:

Why you

daub 'em all over with cold cream and rouge,

That, like Thisbe in Ovid, one cannot come at

'em,

Unless thro' a mud-wall of paint and pomatum.

And

And as to your dress, one would think you quite mad,

From the head to the heel 'tis all mafquerade; With your flounces and furbelows, facks, trollopees,

Now fweeping the ground, and now up to your knees,

Your pinking, and crimping, and chevaux de
frize,

And all the fantaftical cuts of the mode,
You look like a bedlamite, ragged and proud!

Then of late, you're fo fickle that few people mind you;

For my part, I never can tell where to find you;
Now dreft in a cap, now naked in none,

Now loofe in a mob, now clofe in a Joan;
Without handkerchief now, and now bury'd in ruff,
Now plain as a quaker, now all of a puff;
Now a fhape in neat stays, now a flattern in jumps,
Now high in French heels, now low in your

pumps;

Now monft'rous in hoop, now trapish, and walk

ing

With your petticoats clung to your heels, like a maulkin;

Like the cock on the tower that fhews you the weather,

You are hardly the fame for two days together."

Thus

Thus Beauty began, and Miss Fashion reply'd,
"Who does moft for the fex?--let it fairly be try'd,
And they that look round 'em will presently fee,
They're much less beholden to you than to me:
I grant it, indeed, mighty favours you boast,
But how fcanty your favours, how scarce is a toaft?
A fhape, a complexion, you confer now and
then,

But to one that you give, you refuse it to ten;
In one you fucceed, in another you fail,
Here your rofe is too red, there your lily's too pale;
Or fome feature or other is always amifs:

And pray, let me know when you finish'd a piece,
But what I was oblig❜d to correct, or touch over,
Or you never would have either husband or lover?
For I hope, my fair lady, you do not forget,
Tho' you find the thread, that 'tis I make the net ;
And fay what you please, it must be allow'd,
That a woman is nothing unless a-la-mode;
Neglected fhe lives, and no beauty avails,
For what is a fhip without rigging or fails :
Like the di'monds when rough, are the charms
you bestow,

But mine is the fetting and polishing too.

Your nymphs, with their fhapes, their complexions, and features,

What are they without me but poor aukward creatures?

The route, the affembly, the playhouse will tell, 'Tis I form the beau, and I finish the belle;

'Tis

'Tis by me that these beauties must all be supply'd; Which time has withdrawn, or which you have deny'd ;

Impartial to all, did not I lend my aid,

Both Venus and Cupid might throw up their trade,

And even your ladyfhip die an old maid."

ON A CERTAIN LADY.

They only make the fatire who apply it.

AT home, when married Lydia fits,

And only spouse's friends admits,
How negligent her airs!

Quite a-la-mode in difhabille,
See! fnuff her nofe and fingers fill,
Her hair about her ears.

Her handkerchief and morning-gown,
About her fhoulders loosely thrown,
With fcarce a fingle pin in;
No ftays, no hoop are seen upon her,
(Thofe double guards of female honour)
And then, ye gods! her linen.

But when a ball, or masquerade,
Calls her from this domestic shade,
In public light to shine;

She's