O! But let exclamation cease;

Her presence banish'd all his peace:
So with decorum all things carried,

Miss frown'd and blush'd, and then was-married.

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 'twas 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 past 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.

'Tis 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, 'twas fits or fretting
By day, 'twas gadding or coquetting.

G

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 noose,
As each a different way pursues—
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, 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 even the captain quit the field.

Poor madam, now condemned 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.

THE GIFT.

TO IRIS, IN BOW STREET, COVENT GARDEN.

SAY, cruel Iris, pretty rake,
Dear mercenary beauty,

What annual offering 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 rosebud, more in fashion;
Such short liv'd offerings 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 thee to the devil.