Imatges de pÓgina


O memory! thou fond deceiver,
Still importunate and vain,
To former joys recurring ever,

And turning all the past to pain:

Thou, like the world, the opprest oppressing,
Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe;
And he who wants each other blessing,
In thee must ever find a foe.


The wretch condemn'd with life to part,
Still, still on Hope relies;

And every pang that rends the heart,
Bids expectation rise.

Hope, like the glimmering taper's light,
Adorns and cheers the way;

And still, as darker grows the night,
Emits a brighter ray.



Secluded from domestic strife, Jack Book-worm led a college life; A fellowship at twenty-five

Made him the happiest man alive;

He drank his glass, and crack'd his joke,
And freshmen wonder'd as he spoke.

Such pleasures, unalloy'd with care,
Could any accident impair?

Could Cupid's shaft at length transfix
Our swain, arrived at thirty-six?
O! had the Archer ne'er come down
To ravage in a country town!

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Need we expose to vulgar sight
The raptures of the bridal night?
Need we intrude on hallow'd ground,
Or draw the curtains clos'd around?
Let it suffice, that each had charms;
He clasp'd a goddess in his arms:
And, though she felt his usage rough,
Yet, in a man, 't was well enough.

The honey-moon like lightning flew;
The second brought its transports too:
A third, a fourth, were not amiss,
The fifth was friendship mix'd with bliss:
But, when a twelvemonth pass'd away,
Jack found his goddess made of clay;
Found half the charms that deck'd her face
Arose from powder, shreds, or lace:
But still the worst remain'd behind,
That very face had robb'd her mind.

Skill'd in no other arts was she,
But dressing, patching, repartee;
And, just as humour rose or fell,
By turns a slattern or a belle.

"T is true she dress'd with modern grace, Half naked at a ball or race;

But when at home, at board or bed,

Five greasy night-caps wrapp'd her head.
Could so much beauty condescend
To be a dull domestic friend?

Could any curtain lectures bring
To decency so fine a thing?

In short, by night, 't was fits or fretting;
By day, 't was gadding or coquetting.
Fond to be seen, she kept a bevy
Of powder'd coxcombs at her levy;

The 'squire and captain took their stations,
And twenty other near relations:

Jack suck'd his pipe, and often broke
A sigh in suffocating smoke;

While all their hours were pass'd between
Insulting repartee or spleen.

Thus as her faults each day were known, He thinks her features coarser grown; He fancies every vice she shows, 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 so it is,

Her face is grown a knowing phiz;
And, though her fops are wond'rous civil,
He thinks her ugly as the devil.

Now to perplex the ravell'd nooze,
As each a different way pursues,
While sullen or loquacious strife
Promised to hold them on for life,
That dire disease, whose ruthless power
Withers the beauty's transient flower:
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 sight,
Reflected now a perfect fright:
Each former art she vainly tries
To bring back lustre to her eyes;

In vain she tries her paste and creams, To smooth her skin, or hide its seams; Her country beaux and city cousins, Lovers no more, flew off by dozens; The squire himself was seen to yield, And ev'n the captain quit the field.

Poor madam, now condemn'd to hack The rest of life with anxious Jack, Perceiving others fairly flown, Attempted pleasing him alone. Jack soon was dazzled to behold Her present face surpass the old: With modesty her cheeks are dy'd, Humility displaces pride; For tawdry finery is seen A person 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.



Long had I sought in vain to find
A likeness for the scribbling kind;
The modern scribbling kind, who write,
In wit, and sense, and nature's spite:
'Till reading, I forget what day on,
A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon,
I think I met with something there
To suit 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 second, page the tenth:

The stress of all my proofs on him I lay, And now proceed we to our simile.

Imprimis; pray observe his hat,
Wings upon either side 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 bard's 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 simile unites;

For in the modern poet's flights,
I'm sure it may be justly said,

His feet are useful as his head.

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