A postscript to the new Bath guide A Poem by Anthony Pasquin [i.e. John Williams] |
 |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
A CELESTIAL BILL OF FARE. MISS W*******N.
|
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
 | A postscript to the new Bath guide |  |
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LIKE a rich piece of tapestry, once in request,But now out of date, though 'twas wove of the best;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;
115
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—
116
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.
| A postscript to the new Bath guide | |