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Страница 46 - A heavenly image in the glass appears, To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears; Th' inferior priestess, at her altar's side, Trembling, begins the sacred rites of pride.
Страница 46 - From each she nicely culls with curious Toil, And decks the Goddess with the glitt'ring Spoil. This Casket India's glowing Gems unlocks, And all Arabia breathes from yonder Box. The Tortoise here and Elephant unite, Transform'd to Combs, the speckled and the white.
Страница 43 - Some are bewilder'd in the maze of schools, And some made coxcombs Nature meant but fools. In search of wit these lose their common sense, And then turn critics in their own defence : Each burns alike, who can, or cannot write, Or with a rival's or an eunuch's spite.
Страница 47 - Here Files of Pins extend their shining Rows, Puffs, Powders, Patches, Bibles, Billet-doux. Now awful Beauty puts on all its Arms; The Fair each moment rises in her Charms...
Страница 49 - Wise wretch! with pleasures too refined to please, With too much spirit to be e'er at ease, With too much quickness ever to be taught, With too much thinking to have common thought: Who purchase pain with all that joy can give, And die of nothing but a rage to live.
Страница 46 - 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.
Страница 47 - Transformed to combs, the speckled, and the white. Here files of pins extend their shining rows, Puffs, powders, patches, Bibles, billet-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,...
Страница 48 - To where Fleet-ditch with disemboguing streams Rolls the large tribute of dead dogs to Thames, The King of dykes ! than whom no sluice of mud With deeper sable blots the silver flood.
Страница 48 - twould a saint provoke," (Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke;) " No, let a charming chintz and Brussels lace Wrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeless face : One would not, sure, be frightful when one 's dead — And — Betty — give this cheek a little red.
Страница 43 - Her tongue bewitch'd as oddly as her eyes, Less wit than mimic, more a wit than wise ; Strange graces still, and stranger flights she had, Was just not ugly, and was just not mad ; Yet ne'er so sure our passion to create, As when she touch'd the brink of all we hate.