For inftance, when the lily skips
Into the precincts of the rose,
And takes poffeffion of the lips,
Leaving the purple to the nose.
So Celia went entire to bed,
All her complexion fafe and found;
But, when the rose, white, black, and red,
Though ftill in fight, had chang'd their
ground.
The black, which would not be confin'd,
A more inferior ftation feeks,
Leaving the fiery red behind,
And mingles in her muddy cheeks.
But Celia can with ease reduce,
By help of pencil, paint, and brush,
Each colour to its place and use,
And teach her cheeks again to blush,
She knows her early self no more;
But fill'd with admiration stands,
As other painters oft adore
The workmanship of their own hands,
Thus, after four important hours,
Celia's the wonder of her fex:
Say, which among the heav'nly pow'rs
Could caufe fuch marvellous effects?
Veuns, indulgent to her kind,
Gave women all their hearts could wish,
When first she taught them where to find White lead and Lufitanian dish.
Love with white lead cements his wings:
White lead was fent us to repair
Two brightest, brittleft, earthly things,
A lady's face, and China ware.
She ventures now to lift the sash ;
The window is her proper sphere:
Ah lovely nymph! be not too rash,
Nor let the beaux approach too near:
Take pattern by your sister star;
Delude at once, and bless our fight;
When you are feen, be feen from far,
And chiefly chufe to fhine by night.
But art no longer can prevail,
When the materials all are gone; The best mechanic hand muft fail, Where nothing's left to work upon.
Matter, as wife logicians fay
Cannot without a form fubfift;
And form, say I, as well as they,
Muft fail, if matter brings no grift.
And this is fair Diana's cafe ;
For all aftrologers maintain,
Each night a bit drops off her face,
When mortals fay fhe's in her wanę :
While Partridge wifely fhews the cause
Efficient of the moon's decay,
That Cancer with his pois'nous claws
Attacks her in the milky way;
But Gadbury, in art profound,
From her pale checks pretends to fhew,
That fwain Endymion is not found,
Or elfe that Mercury's her foe,
But, let the cause be what it will,
In half a month fhe looks so thin,
That Flamstead can, with all his skill,
See but her forehead and her chin,
Yet, as she wastes, fhe grows difcreet,
'Till midnight never fhews her head:
So rotting Celia ftroles the street,
When fober folks are all a-bed:
For fure, if this be Luna's fate,
Poor Celia, but of mortal race,
In vain expects a longer date
To the materials of her face.
When Mercury her treffes mows,
To think of black-lead combs is vain ;
No painting can restore a nose,
Nor will her teeth return again.
Ye pow'rs, who over love prefide!
Since mortal beauties drop fo foon,
If you would have us well fupply'd,
Send us new nymphs with each new moon.
ROM Venus born, thy beauty fhows; But who thy father, no man knows: Nor can the skilful herald trace
The founder of thy ancient race:
Whether thy temper, full of fire,
Difcovers Vulcan for thy fire,
The God who made Scamander boil,
And round his margin fing'd the foil,
From whence, philofophers agree,
An equal pow'r defcends to thee:
Whether from dreadful Mars you claim
The high descent from whence you came,
And, as a proof, fhew num'rous fcars
By fierce encounters made in wars,
Those honourable wounds you bore
From head to foot, and all before;
And still the bloody field frequent,
Familiar in each leader's tent:
Or whether, as the learn'd contend,
You from the neighb'ring Gaul defcend :
Or from Parthenope the proud,
Where numberless thy vot'ries crowd:
Whether thy great forefathers came
From realms that bear Vefputio's name;
For fo conject'rers would obtrude,
And from thy painted skin conclude :
Whether, as Epicurus fhows,
The world from juftling feeds arofe,
Which, mingling with prolifick ftrife
In chaos, kindled into life;
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