VII.

By old popish canons, as wise men haye penn'd'em, Each priest had a concubine, jure ecclesiæ ;* Who'd be dean of Fernes without a commendam?

And precedents we can produce, if it please ye: Then why should the Dean, when whores are socheap, Be put to the peril and toil of a rape!

VIII.

If fortune should please but to take such a crotchet (To thee I apply, great Smedley's successor) To give thee lawn sleeves, a mitre, and rochet, Whom wouldst though resemble? I leave thee a guesser.

But I only behold thee in Atherton's * shape,
For sodomy hang'd; as thou for a rape.

IX.

Ah! dost thou not envy the brave colonel Chartres,

Condemn'd for thy crime at threescore and ten? To hang him, all England would lend him their garters,

Yet he lives, and is ready to ravish again. Then throttle thyself with an ell of strong tape, For thou hast not a groat to atone for a rape.

X.

The Dean he was vex'd that his whores were so

willing:

He long'd for a girl that would struggle and squall;

He ravish'd her fairly, and sav'd a good shilling; But here was to pay the devil and all.

* A bishop of Waterford, of infamous character. H,

His trouble and sorrows now come in a heap. And harg'd he must be for committing a rape.

XI.

If maidens are ravish'd, it is their own choice:

Why are they so wilful to struggle with men? If they would but lie quiet, and stifle their voice, No devil nor Dean could ravish them then. Nor would there be need of a strong hempen cape Tied round the Dean's neck for committing a rape.

XII.

Our church and our state dear England maintains, For which all true Protestant hearts should be

glad:

She sends us our bishops, our judges, and deans, And better would give us, if better she had. But, lord! how the rabble will stare and will

gape,

When the good English dean is hang'd up for a

rape.

ON STEPHEN DUCK,

THE THRESHER, AND FAVOURITE POET.

A QUIBBLING EPIGRAM. 1730.

THE thresher Duck could o'er the queen prevail,
The proverb says, "no fence against a flail."
From threshing corn he turns to thresh his brains;
For which her majesty allows him grains:
Though 'tis confest, that those, who ever saw
His poems, think them not all worth a straw!

Thrice happy Duck, employ'd in threshing

stubble

Thy toil is lessen'd, and thy profits double.

THE LADY'S DRESSING ROOM.

1730.

FIVE hours (and who can do it less in?)
By haughty Cælia spent in dressing;
The goddess from her chamber issues,
Array'd in lace, brocades, and tissues.
Strephon, who found the room was void,
And Betty otherwise employ'd,
Stole in, and took a strict survey
Of all the litter as it lay:

Whereof, to make the matter clear,
An inventory follows here.

And, first, a dirty smock appear'd,
Beneath the armpits well besmear'd;
Strephon, the rogue, display'd it wide,
And turn'd it round on every side:
On such a point, few words are best,
And Strephon bids us guess the rest;
But swears, how damnably the men lie
In calling Cælia sweet and cleanly.

Now listen, while he next produces
The various combs for various uses;

* A defence of "The Lady's Dressing Room," by some facetious friend of our author, is printed in Faulkner's edition; which, after a humorous travestie of ten lines only of "Horace's "Art of Poetry,” decides clearly that there are ten times more slovenly expressions in those ten lines of Horace, than in the whole poem of Dr. Swift. N.

Fill'd

Fill'd up with dirt so closely fixt,
No brush could force a way betwixt ;
A paste of composition rare,

Sweat, dandriff, powder, lead, and hair:
A forehead-cloth with oil upon't,

To smooth the wrinkles on her front:
Here alum-flower, to stop the steams
Exhal'd from sour unsavoury streams;
There night-gloves made of Tripsey's hide,
Bequeath'd by Tripsey when she died;
With puppy-water, beauty's help,
Distill'd from Tripsey's darling whelp.
Here gallipots and vials plac'd,

Some fill'd with washes, some with paste;
Some with pomatums, paints, and slops,
And ointments good for scabby chops.
Hard by a filthy basin stands,

Foul'd with the scouring of her hands:
The basin takes whatever comes,
The scrapings from her teeth and gums,
A nasty compound of all hues,

For here she spits, and here she spews.

But, oh! it turn'd poor Strephon's bowels,
When he beheld and smelt the towels,
Begumm'd, bematter'd, and beslim'd,
With dirt, and sweat, and earwax grim'd;
No object Strephon's eye escapes;
Her petticoats in frowzy heaps;
Nor be the handkerchiefs forgot,
All varnish'd o'er with snuff and snot.
The stockings why should I expose,
Stain'd with the moisture of her toes,*

* Var. "marks of stinking toes." H.

Or

Or greasy coifs, or pinners reeking,
Which Cælia slept at least a week in?
A pair of tweezers next he found,
To pluck her brows in arches round;
Or hairs that sink the forehead low,
Or on her chin like bristles grow.

The virtues we must not let pass
Of Cælia's magnifying-glass;

When frighted Strephon cast his eye on't,
It show'd the visage of a giant:
A glass that can to sight disclose
The smallest worm in Cælia's nose,
And faithfully direct her nail

To squeeze it out from head to tail;
For, catch it nicely by the head,
It must come out, alive or dead.

Why, Strephon, will you tell the rest?
And must you needs describe the chest?
That careless wench! no creature warn her
To move it out from yonder corner!
But leave it standing full in sight,

For

you to exercise your spite?

In vain the workman show'd his wit,
With rings and hinges counterfeit,
To make it seem in this disguise
A cabinet to vulgar eyes:

Which Strephon ventur'd to look in,
Resolv'd to go through thick and thin,
He lifts the lid: there needs no more,
He smelt it all the time before.

As, from within Pandora's box,
When Epimetheus op'd the locks,
A sudden universal crew
Of human evils upward flew,
I 2

He