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While sullen or loquacious strife

Promis'd to hold them on for life,

That dire disease, whose ruthless power

Withers the beauty's transient flower,

Lo! the small-pox, with 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 e'en 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.



SAY, cruel Iris, pretty rake,

Dear mercenary beauty,

What annual off'ring shall I make

Expressive of my duty.

My heart a victim to thine eyes,

Should I at once deliver,

Say, would the angry fair-one prize
The gift, who slights the giver?

A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,

My rivals give....and let 'em.

If gems, or gold, impart a joy,
I'll give them....when I get 'em.

I'll give....but not the full-blown rose.

Or rose-bud more in fashion;

Such short-liv'd off'rings but disclose

A transitory passion.

I'll give thee something yet unpaid,

Not less sincere than civil:

I'll give thee....ah! too charming maid,

I'll give the devil.



LOGICIANS have but ill defin'd

As rational the human mind;

Reason, they say, belongs to man,

But let them prove it if they can.

Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius,

By ratiocinations specious,

Have strove to prove with great precision,

With definition and division,

Homo est ratione preditum;

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But for my soul I cannot credit 'em ;
And must, in spite of them, maintain,
That man and all his ways are vain;

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