University of Virginia Library

LETTER XII. Horace Peery, Esq; to Bob Classic, at Oxford.

The BEAUTIES of BATH.

So to raise up the head of poor half-martyr'd Hymen,
My associate Robert will dare Habit's crimen;
In God's name be it so—now to strengthen your wishes,
I will give to your sense some of Nature's best dishes;
Resistless morçeaus—for she toils to preserve 'em,
And sends Wit to dress 'em, for such—as deserve 'em.
Why a man may not wed, there are few who can tell him,
Why he may, there are millions who pant to impel him.
“Two happy days in marriage are allow'd,
A Wife in wedding sheets, and in—her shroud;
Then why should such a state be call'd accurst,
Since the last day's as happy as the first.”

A CELESTIAL BILL OF FARE. MISS W*******N.

LIKE a rich piece of tapestry, once in request,
But now out of date, though 'twas wove of the best;
The dignified W*******n, half faded, comes for'ard,
Disrob'd of those whims, which her youth luckless borrow'd:
Her gift of all gifts yet ungiven is musty,
Her curvettings are harmless, her chains are grown rusty;
That bauble which rip'd, when in Fashion's beam basking,
Though once madly priz'd, you may now have for asking;
Ere Time's dusky pencil had sullied her beauties,
Her vanity shook e'en Morality's duties:
When she put on her stays and her rouge in the morning,
She consulted her glass—for new methods of scorning!
Her aim was to mortify recreant man,
By her lip—or her eye—or her tongue—or her fan—
Cock'd her nose at the fruit—when to eat they'd implore her:
But no one, ah! me, put their fruit now before her—
She pouts—she decries—she is famish'd 'mid plenty,
And has now not one captive, who once could boast twenty;
Paints—patches—jerks—ogles—looks pretty, and sighs,
Till the wounds of Disdain draw—the tears from her eyes;
Then her diurnal roses are wash'd by the shower,
And Nature looks pallid, where—Art made a flower—
For the pangs of the mind tint the cheeks of the proud,
As fields take their hue from the state of the cloud—
Like the sapient Hebrew, who call'd Pleasure vain,
She now treats with scorn what she—cannot obtain;
And toothless, like him, is compell'd to shun ill,
And philosophize wisely—in spite of her will.

MISS C*****E.

MISS B***Y.

AUGUST, yet meek; superior, but not vain;
Extatic B***y joins the envied train.
To live beneath the radiance of her eye,
The haughty supplicate—the gallant sigh;
The milder Graces prompt her blameless deed,
She claims our honour, and receives the meed.
As o'er the haunts of Innocency spread
The dulcet woodbine to illume her shed;
Thus steals the smile upon her coral lip,
Where Nation's Lords might honey'd essence sip;
Giving what Agony denies to Sin,
External sweetness to the good within:
Deep in the bright recesses of her breast,
The fear of God rules Fashion's gay behest;
For her the ministry of Peace prevail,
And smooth the points of the Æolian gale:
For her the Seasons in obedience rise,
For her the Thunders sleep amid the skies.
Like Britain's Charlotte, who sublimes command,
And breathes 'twixt Vengeance and a guilty land.

THE MISS J***S's.

THE MISS M***KS.

NOT that calm redd'ning splendour so joyful or sweet is,
When Phœbus first mounts from the lap of his Thetis,
(And laughingly issues his heart-cheering ray,
To banish blithe sylphs from the regions of day,
And extirpate the dew where the fold found repose,
And absorb the big tear from the grief-oppress'd rose;)
Or so lovelily gay, or so charg'd with delight,
As when the meek M***ks burst array'd on the sight:
To think of such nymphs—and to think such nymphs kind,
Is suggesting a bliss that's too vast for the mind.

THE MISS W******KS.

WITH Paphian twistings—with well-marshall'd sighs—
With glittering trophies—with love-swimming eyes—
With gauze-fashion'd bulwarks swell'd wide to assail—
With rich gaudy ribbands enforc'd by the gale:
As Favonius moves the leaf'd twigs of the willow—
As Motion upheaves the perturbed salt billow—
With felicitous blandishments—passionate aims—
The blythe varied W******ks for glee urge their claims:
No blunders intolerant sickly their movements—
When they imitate Fashion, their toils are—improvements;
Deep skill'd in the science of delicate duties—
They are all pretty women—though none are true beauties.
The eye of Miss Jane whispers—Love me, I pray,
And you'll find me a circling—sweet gal;
But the diamond of Susan in darting its ray,
All conscious says—d---me, you shall!
Say who for such frames would not Liberty barter?
Say who'd be suspicious—of catching a tartar?

ELIZA.

LO—faultless Eliza! persuasive and mild—
She's Propriety's handmaid, and Beauty's own child!
Though by witcheries arm'd, and created to please,
Her trembling accomplishments blaze by degrees;
And Intreaty's most polish'd address must be sung,
Ere the Sciences steal from her mind to her tongue.
Thus the night-chill'd, bent, shrunk, modest tulip requires
Extramundane support from a God's vivid fires,
Imploring hot beams from Day's luminous Ruler,
While the faint reeking herds couch in shades for a cooler:—
Those tears which roll down at the moans of Distress,
Like Heaven's own balm drop to strengthen and bless;
Those smiles never lift up her virginal cheek,
But to glad timid Worth, and embolden the meek:
Such mellifluous tones from her minstrelsy flow,
They arrest and subdue intellectual Woe!
E'en to govern the spheres radiant Fate would implore her,
Had not Orpheus been wrapt in Empyrean before her—
Should Affliction's keen barb gore her soul's subtle rind,
May the potent Nepenthe bring Peace to her mind.
Could I, like Tibullus, my anguish rehearse,
Irresistible magic should freight every verse.
Ah! come, my Eliza! be happy—be wise—
Ere Time blunt those arrows, which Love gave your eyes;
Let the minions of Hope to young Rapture consign you,
Till the high floods of Joy meliorate and refine you.

MISS FULLER.

KIND Jove in our dish a sweet inmate has flung us,
The pride of Iërne—Anne Fuller—'s among us—
Had I own'd my heart's laws I had surely caress'd her,
But Decency frown'd, so I starv'd and address'd her.

VERSES TO THE WITTY AND BEAUTIFUL MISS ANNE FULLER.

POSTSCRIPT.

ELEGIACK VERSES ON THE DEATH OF THE LATE MARCHIONESS OF LANSDOWN.