SATURDAY. The SMALL-POX. FLAVIA. HE wretched FLAVIA on her couch reclin'd, TH Thus breath'd the anguish of a wounded mind; A glass revers'd in her right hand she bore, For now the fhun'd the face fhe fought before. 'How am I chang'd! alas! how am I grown A frightful spectre, to myself unknown! 'Where's my complexion? where my radiant bloom, That promis'd happiness for years to come? • Then with what pleasure I this face furvey'd! 'To look once more, my vifits oft delay'd! • Charm'd with the view, a fresher red would rise, And a new life shot sparkling from my eyes! 'Ah! faithless glass, my wonted bloom restore ; Alas! I rave, that bloom is now no more. The greatest good the gods on men bestow, Ev'n youth itself to me is useless now. There was a time (oh! that I could forget!) "When opera-tickets pour'd before my feet; 'And at the ring, where brightest beauties shine, The earliest cherries of the fpring were mine. • With what contempt ye saw me oft despise • For me the Wit to nonsense was betray'd; The Gamefter has for me his dun delay'd, 'And overseen the card he would have play'd. 'The bold and haughty by fuccefs made vain, 'Aw'd by my eyes, have trembled to complain : The bafhful 'Squire, touch'd by a wish unknown, 'Has dar'd to speak with spirit not his own: 'Fir'd by one wish, all did alike adore ; 'Now beauty's fled, and lovers are no more! 'As • As round the room I turn my weeping eyes, • New unaffected scenes of forrow rise. < Far from my fight that killing picture bear, The face disfigure, and the canvas tear : That picture, which with pride I us'd to fhow, • The lost resemblance but upbraids me now. And thou, my toilette, where I oft have fate, While hours unheeded pafs'd in deep debate, 'How curls should fall, or where a patch to place; 'If blue or fcarlet beft became my face; 'Now on fome happier nymph your aid bestow; 'On fairer heads, ye ufelefs jewels, glow; 'No borrow'd luftre can my charms restore; Beauty is fled, and drefs is now no more. 'Ye meaner beauties, I permit ye shine; Go, triumph in the hearts that once were mine; 'But, 'midft your triumphs, with confufion know, ''Tis to my ruin all your arms ye owe. "Would pitying heav'n restore my wonted mien, 'Ye 'Ye cruel chymifts, what with-held your aid! 'Could no pomatums fave a trembling maid? 'How false and trifling is that art ye boast! 'No art can give me back my beauty loft. In tears, furrounded by my friends I lay, Mask'd o'er, and trembled at the fight of day; 'MIRMILLIO came my fortune to deplore, (A golden-headed cane well carv'd he bore) Cordials, he cry'd, my spirits must restore! 'Beauty is fled, and spirit is no more! 'GALEN, the grave; officious SQUIRT was there, "With fruitless grief and unavailing care: 'MACHAON too, the great MACHAON, known < By his red cloak and his fuperior frown; And why, he cry'd, this grief and this despair? 'You shall again be well, again be fair ; "Believe my oath; (with that an oath he swore ;) False was his oath; my beauty is no more! Ceafe, haplefs, maid, no more thy tale purfue, 'Forfake mankind, and bid the world adieu! Monarchs and beauties rule with equal fway; • All strive to ferve, and glory to obey : 'Alike unpitied when depos'd they grow Men mock the idol of their former vow. 'Adieu ! Adieu! ye parks !-in some obscure recess, Where gentle ftreams will weep at my distress, • Where no falfe friend will in my grief take part, • And mourn my ruin with a joyful heart; There let me live in fome deserted place, There hide in fhades this loft inglorious face. Plays, operas, circles, I no more muft view! · My toilette, patches, all the world adieu !' The LOVER: A BALLAD. A To Mr. C By the Same. I. T length, by fo much importunity press'd, Take, C, at once the infide of my breaft. This ftupid indiff'rence fo often you blame, Is not owing to nature, to fear, or to fhame. Nor is Sunday's fermon fo ftrong in my head: I know but too well how time flies along, That we live but few years, and yet fewer are young. II. But |