But, let the cause be what it will,
In half a month she looks so thin,
That Flamsteed[1] can, with all his skill,
See but her forehead and her chin.
Yet, as she wastes, she grows discreet,
Till midnight never shows her head:
So rotting Celia strolls the street,
When sober folks are all abed:
For sure, 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 tresses mows,
To think of black lead combs is vain;
No painting can restore a nose,
Nor will her teeth return again.
Ye powers, who over love preside!
Since mortal beauties drop so soon,
If ye would have us well supply'd,
Send us new nymphs with each new moon!
THE PROGRESS OF POETRY.
THE farmer's goose, who in the stubble
Has fed without restraint or trouble,
Grown fat with corn and sitting still,
Can scarce get o'er the barndoor sill;
And hardly waddles forth to cool
Her belly in the neighbouring pool;
- ↑ John Flamsteed, the celebrated astronomer royal.
