The Toilette

Now twenty Springs had cloath'd the Park with Green, Since Lydia knew the Blossom of Fifteen: No Lovers now her Morning Hours molest, And catch her at her Toilette half undrest; The thund'ring Knocker wakes the Street no more; Nor Chairs, nor Coaches croud her silent Door; Now at the Window all the Mornings pass, Or at the dumb Devotion of the Glass; Reclin'd upon her Arm she pensive sat, And curst th'Inconstancy of Man too late.

O Youth! O Spring of Life! for ever lost! No more my Name shall reign the fav'rite Toast, On Glass no more the Diamond grave my Name, And Rhimes mispell'd record a Lover's Flame: Nor shall Side-Boxes watch my restless Eyes, And as they catch the Glance in Rows arise With humble Bows; nor White-glov'd Beaus incroach In Crouds behind, to guard me to my Coach.

What shall I do to spend the hateful Day? At Chapel shall I wear the Morn away? Who there appears at these unmodish Hours, But ancient Matrons with their frizled Tow'rs, And grey religious Maids? my Presence there, Amid that sober Train, would cause Despair. Nor am I yet so old; nor is my Glance As yet fix'd wholly to Devotion's Trance.

Strait then I'll dress, and take my wonted Range, To India-Shops, Motteux's, or the Change; Where the Tall Jar erects his costly Pride, With antique Shapes, in China's Azure dy'd: There, careless lies the rich Brocade, unroll'd; Here, shines a Cabinet with Burnish'd Gold: But then, alas! I must be forc'd to pay, Or bring no Pennyworths, or Fan away.

How am I curs'd! (unhappy, and forlorn) My Lover's Triumph, and my Sex's Scorn? False is the pompous Grief of youthful Heirs, False are the loose Coquet's inveig'ling Airs, False is the crafty Courtiers plighted Word; False are the Dice, when Gamesters stamp the Board: False is the sprightly Widow's public Tear: Yet these to Damon's Oaths are all sincere. For what young Flirt, base Man, am I abus'd? To please your Wife, am I unkindly us'd? 'Tis true, her Face may boast the Peach's Bloom; But does her nearer whisp'ring Breath perfume? I own, her taper Shape is made to please; Yet when you see her unconfin'd by Stayes, She doubly to Fifteen may claim Pretence; Alike we read it in her Wit and Sense. Insipid, servile Thing, that I disdain, WhosePhlegm can best support theMarriage-Chain. Damon is practis'd in the modish Life, Can hate, and yet be civil to his Wife. He games, he swears, he drinks, he fights, he roves, Yet Cloe can believe he fondly loves. Mistress and Wife by turns supply his Need; A Miss for Pleasure, and a Wife for Breed. Tower'd with Di'monds, free from Thought or Care, She can a sullen Husband's Humour bear. Her cred'lous Friendship, and her stupid Ease, Has often been my Jest in happier Days. Now Cloe boasts and triumphs in my Pains; To Her he's faithful, tis to Me he feigns, Am I that senseless Thing to bear Neglect, And force a Smile not daring to suspect. No,—perjur'd Man! a Wife may be content; But you shall find a Mistress can resent.

Thus Love-sick Lydia rav'd. Her Maid appears; With steddy Hand the Band-Box-Charge she bears. How well those Ribbands-Gloss becomes your Face She cries, in Raptures! then, so sweet a Lace; How charmingly you look! so strait! so fair! 'Tis to your Eyes the Head-Dress owes its Air. Strait Lydia smil'd; the Comb adjusts her Locks, And at the Play-House, Harry keeps her Box.