نگر 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; Let your ftomacher reach from shoulder to fhoulder, And leave men as little to guess as they please. 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 And all the fantaftical cuts of the mode, Then of late, you're fo fickle that few people mind you; For my part, I never can tell where to find you; Now loofe in a mob, now clofe in a Joan; 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, But to one that you give, you refuse it to ten; And pray, let me know when you finish'd a piece, 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'Tis I form the beau, and I finish the belle; 'Tis 'Tis by me that these beauties must all be supply'd; Which time has withdrawn, or which you have deny'd ; Impartial to all, did not I lend my aid, Both Venus and Cupid might throw up their trade, And even your ladyfhip die an old maid."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, Quite a-la-mode in difhabille, Her handkerchief and morning-gown, But when a ball, or masquerade, She's |