And as for the dean,
You know whom I mean,
If the printer will peach him, he'll scarce come off clean.
Then we'll buy English silks, for our wives and our daughters,
In spite of his deanship, and journeyman Waters.
THE PROGRESS OF BEAUTY. 1720.
WHEN first Diana leaves her bed,
Vapours and steams her look disgrace,
A frowzy dirty-colour'd red
Sits on her cloudy wrinkled face:
But, by degrees, when mounted high,
Her artificial face appears
Down from her window in the sky,
Her spots are gone, her visage clears.
'Twixt earthly females, and the moon,
All parallels exactly run:
If Celia should appear too soon,
Alas, the nymph would be undone!
To see her from her pillow rise,
All reeking in a cloudy steam,
Crack'd lips, foul teeth, and gummy eyes,
Poor Strephon! how would he blaspheme!
Three colours, black, and red, and white,
So graceful in their proper place,
Remove them to a different site,
They form a frightful hideous face:
