WF HEN firft Diana leaves her bed, Vapours and steams her look disgrace, A frowzy dirty-colour'd red Sits on her cloudy wrinkled face : But by degrees, when mounted high Down from her window in the fky, Her spots are gone, her vifage clears. 'Twixt earthly females and the moon To fee her from her pillow rife, Three colours, black, and red, and white, 1 For inftance, when the lily skips So Celia went entire to bed, All her complexion safe and found; But, when she rofe, white, black, and red, Though still in fight, had chang'd their ground. The black, which would not be confin'd, And mingles in her muddy cheeks. But Celia can with eafe reduce, By help of pencil, paint, and brush, Each colour to its place and ufe, And teach her cheeks again to blush. She knows her early felf no more; But fill'd with admiration ftands, As other painters oft adore The workmanship of their own hands. Thus, after four important hours, Venus, indulgent to her kind, Gave women all their hearts could wish, When first she taught them where to find Love with white lead cements his wings: She ventures now to lift the fash; Take pattern by your fifter star; Delude at once, and bless our fight; When you are feen, be feen from far, And chiefly chufe to shine by night. But art no longer can prevail, When the materials all are gone; The best mechanic hand muft fail, Where nothing's left to work upon. Matter, as wife logicians fay, And this is fair Diana's cafe; For all aftrologers maintain, Each night a bit drops off her face, When mortals fay fhe's in her wane ; * While Partridge wifely fhews the cause But Gadbury, in art profound, From her pale cheeks pretends to fhew, But, let the cause be what it will, * Partridge and Gadbury wrote each an ephemeris. Endymion, a young fhep herd, of whom Diana was feigned to be enamoured, Yet Yet, as she wastes, fhe grows difcreet, For fure, if this be Luna's fate, To the materials of her face. When Mercury her treffes mows, To think of black-lead combs is vain; Ye pow'rs, who over love prefide! If PETHOX THE GREAT. FR ROM Venus born, thy beauty fhows; But who thy father, no man knows : Nor can the fkilful herald trace The founder of thy ancient race: Whether |