Friday: The Toilette, Lydia

The Toilette Lydia

Now twenty Springs had cloath'd the Park with Green
Since Lydia knew the blossom of Fiveteen.
No Lovers now her morning Hours molest
And catch her at her Toilette halfe undrest,
The thundering Knocker wakes the street no more,
Nor Chairs, nor Coaches, croud the silent door;
Now at the Window all her mornings pass,
Or at the dumb Devotion of her Glass.
Reclin'd upon her Arm she pensive sate,
And curst th'Inconstancy of Man, too late.
 Oh Youth! Oh spring of Life, for ever lost,
No more my Name shall reign the fav'rite Toast,
On Glass no more the Di'mond grave my Name,
And Lines mispelt record my Lovers Flame,
Nor shall side boxes watch my wand'ring Eyes,
And as they catch the Glance in rows arise
With humble Bows, nor white Glov'd Beaux incroach
In crouds behind to guard me to my Coach.
 What shall I do to spend the hatefull Day?
At Chappel shall I wear the Morn away?
Who there appears at these unmodish hours,
But ancient Matrons with their frizled Tours,
And grey religious Maids? My presence there
Amidst that sober Train, would own Dispair;
Nor am I yet so old, nor is my Glance
As yet fix'd wholly on Devotion's Trance.
 Strait then I'll dress and take my wonted Range,
Through India shops, to Motteux's, or the Change,
Where the Tall Jar erects his stately Pride
With Antick Shapes in China's Azure dy'd,
There careless lyes a rich Brocard unroll'd,
Here shines a Cabinet with burnish'd Gold;
But then, Alas! I must be forc'd to pay,
Or bring no Pen'norths, not a Fan away.
 How am I curs'd! unhappy and forlorn,
My Lover's Triumph, and my Sexes Scorn!
False is the pompous Greife of youthfull Heirs,
False are the loose Coquettes inveigling airs,
False is the crafty Courtier's 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 Peaches bloom,
But does her nearer whisper breathe Perfume?
I own her taper Shape is form'd to please,
But don't you see her unconfin'd by Stays?
She doubly to fiveteen may claim pretence,
Alike we read it, in her Face, and sense.
Insipid servile Thing! whom I disdain,
Her Phlegm can best support the Marriage Chain.
Damon is practis'd in the modish Life,
Can Hate and yet be Civil to his Wife.
He Games, he drinks, he swears, he fights, he roves,
Yet Cloe can beleive he fondly Loves;
Mistriss and Wife by turns supply his need,
A Miss for pleasure and a Wife for breed.
Powder'd with Di'monds, free from Spleen or Care
She can a sullen Husband's humour bear,
Her Credulous Freindship, and her Stupid Ease,
Have often been my Jest in happier Days.
Now Cloe boasts and triumphs in my Pains,
To her he's Faithfull, 'tis to me he feigns.
Am I that stupid 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 Mistriss can resent—
 Thus Lovesick Lydia rav'd; her Maid appears,
And in her faithfull Hand, the Band box bears,
(The Cestos that reform'd Inconstant Jove,
Not better fill'd with what allures to Love).
How well this Riband's Gloss becomes your Face,
She crys in Rapture! Then so sweet a Lace!
How charmingly you look! so bright! 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.
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