Jack suck'd his pipe, and often broke
A sigh in suffocating smoke;

While all their hours were past between
Insulting repartee or spleen.

Thus as her faults each day were known,

He thinks her features coarser grown:
He fancies ev'ry vice she shews,

Or thins her lip, or points her nose :

Whenever rage or envy rise,

How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes;

He knows not how, but so it is,

Her face is grown a knowing phyz;

And though her fops are wond'rous civil,

He thinks her ugly as the devil.

Now, to perplex the ravell'd noose,

As each a diff'rent way pursues,
While sullen or loquacious strife
Promis'd to hold them on for life,
That dire disease, whose ruthless pow'r
Withers the beauty's transient flow'r,
Lo! the small pox, whose horrid glare
Levell❜d its terrors at the fair;

And, rifling ev'ry youthful grace,

Left but the remnant of a face.

The glass, grown hateful to her sight, Reflected now a perfect fright:

Each former art she vainly tries

To bring back lustre to her

eyes.

In vain she tries her paste and creams
To smooth her skin, or hide its seams;
Her country beaux and city cousins,
Lovers no more, flew off by dozens:
The 'squire himself was seen to yield,
And e'en the captain quit the field.

Poor madam, now condemn'd to hack

The rest of life with anxious Jack,

Perceiving others fairly flown,
Attempted pleasing him alone.

Jack soon was dazzled to behold

Her

present face surpass the old; With modesty her cheeks are dy'd,

Humility displaces pride;

For tawdry finery is seen
A person ever neatly clean :

No more presuming on her sway,
She learns good-nature ev'ry day:
Serenely gay, and strict in duty,

Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty.

THE GIFT.

ΤΟ

IRIS, IN BOW-STREET, COVENT-GARDEN.

SAY, cruel Iris, pretty rake,
Dear mercenary beauty,

What annual off'ring shall I make
Expressive of my duty?

My heart, a victim to thine eyes,
Should I at once deliver,

Say, would the angry fair one prize
The gift who slights the giver?

A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,
My rivals give-and let 'em,

If gems, or gold, impart a joy,

I'll give them-when I get 'em,

I'll give-but not the full-blown rose, Or rose-bud more in fashion; Such short-liv'd off'rings but disclose A transitory passion.

I'll give thee something yet unpaid,
Not less sincere than civil:

I'll give thee-ah! too charming maid,
I'll give thee-to the devil.