University of Virginia Library

The TEA-POT; or, The Lady's Transformation.

A new Poem By Mr. Philips.

Soft Venus, Love's too anxious Queen.
In fit of Vapours or of Spleen,
Because, perhaps, a fav'rite God
Fail'd to return her smile or nod,
Or that Her Mars of late groun cold,
Behav'd less Kindly than of old,
With inward sullen discontent,
To Juno utter'd this Complaint.
“There lives a Nymph below the Skies,
“That Carries Witchcraft in her Eyes,
“No fond Addresses will she take
“From Lovers of a Mortal make:
“But turns her haughty Looks above
“Perhaps to Mars, perhaps to Jove;
“Disdaining Men she seems to mark
“None less than an Aetherial Spark,
“And of't you know We've born Disgrace,
“Despis'd for those of Human Race.
“If more such Nymphs get leave to Reign,
“Our Empire we shall ne'er maintain,
“But Goddesses resign their Birth,
“To the bright Morts who ply on Earth.
So Venus spoke with Envy fir'd—
The other Jealousie inspir'd,
And red with Rage, and big with Hate,
She thus pronounc'd the Virgin's fate,
“She whose aspiring thoughts can rise,
“To Tempt a Rival in the Skies,
“Who thus with Stubborn Pride neglects
“Th'Addresses of the Kindred Sex.
“Into a Tea-pot's Figure throun
“Shall still attend and serve her Own.
When now, her Doom was fix'd the Maid,
Before a Glass her Form survey'd.
Her Eyes that o'er her beauties range,
Too soon perceive the fatal Change;
She sees, she feels the dire Decay;
Grows cold and stiffens into Clay;
Extinguish'd bye the vital Fires,
And every crimson Blush retires.
The Well turn'd Waste in Canvas bound,
Shrunk to a little hollow round:
The Iv'ry Arm that in her side,
By chance she plac'd with comely Pride.
By Fate was in that Posture held
And in a Handle's form congeal'd—
Amaz'd with Horror and Surprise
She Lifts to Heaven her Watry Eyes;
Unpitying Heaven—and Oh! She cried—
Her Mouth grew circular and wide
Her Lips, that once outvied the Rose,
Turn pale and in a Cover Close.
Her Tongue, which last in health remain'd,
And last its Suppleness retain'd.
With usual Pliance nimbly slips
To feel the Change, between her Lips,
But loosing there all Power to move,
Appears a Little knob above,
Which Helps as formerly to hide,
Seldom to hide the interior Side.
But what was chang'd in to the Spout,
The cautious Muse resolves with Doubt.
Uncertain whether 'twere the Nose,
Because from thence a Liquid flows.
Or Eyes because they oft reveal'd,
What hidden things the Lips conceal'd—
Howe'r it was, by Juno's Hand,
The Nymph a finish'd Teapot stands.
Now from the High Coelestial Plain
The Goddesses Confederate lean,
And with malitious Triumph they
Their Monument of Wrath survey;
Upon a stricter View they find
Some Parts remain unchang'd behind,
And with those Relicts of their Rage,
They furnish out an Equipage—
Part of the Scull, well temper's Clay,
Fell off and in a Slop-Dish lay:
Her polish'd Forehead being thought
Good Mettal, into Spoons were wrought.
Holes in the Heart where Secrets lay,
Became Receptacles for Tea,
The Tea as Secrets did of old
Drops out again before 'tis cold.
Her Lungs another Form receive
And in respiring Bellows heave
The Bellows still delight to blow
Coals that beneath the Kettle Glow.