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78

THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION.

While all their hours were pafs'd between
Infulting 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 fo it is,
Her face is grown a knowing phyz;
And tho' her fops are wond'rous civil,
He thinks her ugly as the devil.
Now, to perplex the ravell'd noofe,
As each a diff'rent way pursues,
While fullen or loquacious ftrife
Promis'd to hold them on for life,
That dire disease, whofe ruthless pow'r
Withers the beauty's tranfient 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 fhe vainly tries

To bring back luftre to her eyes:

In vain the tries her paste and creams,
To smooth her fkin, or hide its feams;
Her country beaux and city coufins,
Lovers no more, flew off by dozens;
The 'fquire himself was feen to yield,
And even the captain quit the field.

THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION.

Poor madam, now condemn'd to hack
The reft of life with anxious Jack,
Perceiving others fairly flown,
Attempted pleafing him alone.
Jack foon was dazzled to behold
Her present face furpass the old;
With modesty her cheeks are dy'd,
Humility difplaces pride;

For tawdry finery is feen
A perfon ever neatly clean:
No more presuming on her sway,
She learns good-nature every day-
Serenely gay, and strict in duty,
Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty.

THIS

EPITAPH ON DR. PARNEL.

HIS tomb, infcrib'd to gentle Parnel's name, May speak our gratitude, but not his fame. What heart but feels his sweetly moral lay, That leads to truth thro' pleasure's flowery way? Celestial themes confefs'd his tuneful aidAnd heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid. Needless to him the tribute we bestow, The tranfitory breath of fame belowMore lafting rapture from his works fhall rife, While converts thank their poet in the skies.

79

A NEW SIMILE.

IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT.

LONG had I fought in vain to find
A likeness for the scribbling kind—
The modern fcribbling kind, who write
In wit, and fenfe, and nature's spite:
'Till, reading, I forget what day on,
A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon,
I think I met with fomething there
To fuit 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 fecond, page the tenth.
The stress of all my proofs on him I lay,
And now proceed we to our fimile.
Imprimis-pray observe his hat,
Wings upon either fide-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 peruse— Wings 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.

Laftly, vouchsafe t'obferve his hand,
Fill'd with a fnake-incircled wand;
By claffic authors term'd caduceus,
And highly fam'd for feveral uses:
To wit-most wond'rously endu'd,
No poppy-water half so good;
For let folks only get a touch,
Its foporific virtue's fuch,

Tho' ne'er fo much awake before,
That quickly they begin to fnore;
Add too, what certain writers tell,
With this he drives men's fouls to hell.
Now to apply begin we then:
His wand's a modern author's pen;
The ferpents round about it twin'd
Denote him of the reptile kind;
Denote the rage with which he writes,
His frothy flaver, venom❜d bites;
An equal femblance still to keep,
Alike too both conduce to fleep.
This diff'rence only, as the god
Drove fouls to Tart'rus with his rod;
With his goofe-quill the fcribbling 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;

F

In which all modern bards agree,

Being each as great a thief as he:
But even this deity's existence

Shall lend my fimile affistance.

Our modern bards! why, what a pox

Are they but fenfeless stones and blocks?

THE GIFT.

TO IRIS-IN BOW-STREET, COVENT-GARDEN.

SAY, cruel Iris, pretty rake,

Dear mercenary beauty,

What annual off'ring fhall I make
Expreffive of my duty?

My heart, a victim to thine eyes,
Should I at once deliver,

Say, would the angry fair-one prize
The gift, who flights the giver?

A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,
My rivals give-and let 'em.
If gems, or gold, import a joy,
I'll give them-when I get 'em.
I'll give but not the full-blown rose,
Or rofe-bud more in fashion;
Such fhort-liv'd off'rings but difclofe
A tranfitory paffion.

I'll give thee fomething yet unpaid,
Not lefs fincere, than civil:

I'll give thee-ah! too charming maid,
I'll give thee—to the devil.

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