Saturday: The Small Pox, Flavia

The Small Pox Flavia

The wretched Flavia, on her Couch reclin'd,
Thus breath'd the Anguish of a wounded mind.
A Glass revers'd in her right hand she bore;
For now she shunn'd the Face she sought before.
 How am I chang'd! Alas, how am I grown
A frightfull Spectre to my selfe unknown!
Where's my Complexion, where the radiant bloom
That promis'd Happyness for Years to come?
Then, with what Pleasure I this Face survey'd!
To look once more, my Visits oft delay'd!
Charm'd with the veiw, 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,
Even Youth it selfe 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 Cherrys of the Park were mine.
Wittness oh Lilly! and thou Motteux tell!
How much Japan these Eyes have made you sell,
With what contempt you saw me oft despise
The humble Offer of the raffled Prize:
For at each raffle still the Prize I bore,
With Scorn rejected, or with Triumph wore:
Now Beautie's Fled, and Presents are no more.
 For me, the Patriot has the House forsook,
And left debates to catch a passing look,
For me, the Soldier has soft verses writ,
For me, the Beau has aim'd to be a Wit,
For me, the Wit to Nonsense was betraid,
The Gamester has for me his Dun delaid,
And overseen the Card, I would have paid.
The bold and Haughty, by Success made vain,
Aw'd by my Eyes has trembled to complain,
The bashfull 'Squire touch'd with 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 round the Room I turn my weeping Eyes,
New unaffected Scenes of Sorrow rise;
Far from my Sight that killing Picture bear,
The Face disfigure, or the Canvas tear!
That Picture, which with Pride I us'd to show,
The lost ressemblance but upbraids me now.
And thou my Toilette! where I oft have sate,
While Hours unheeded pass'd in deep Debate,
How Curls should fall, or where a Patch to place,
If Blue or Scarlet best became my Face;
Now on some happier Nymph thy Aid bestow,
On Fairer Heads, ye useless Jewells, glow!
No borrow'd Lustre can my Charms restore,
Beauty is fled, and Dress is now no more.
 Ye meaner Beauties, I permit you, shine,
Go triumph in the Hearts, that once were mine,
But midst your Triumphs, with Confusion know,
'Tis to my Ruin all your Charms ye owe.
Would pitying Heaven restore my wonted mein,
You still might move, unthought of, and unseen—
But oh, how vain, how wretched is the boast,
Of Beauty faded, and of Empire lost!
What now is left, but weeping to Deplore
My Beauty fled, and Empire now no more!
 Ye cruel Chymists, what with held your Aid?
Could no Pomatums save a trembling Maid?
How false and triffling is that Art you boast;
No Art can give me back my Beauty lost!
In tears surrounded by my Freinds I lay,
Mask'd o're, and trembling at the light of Day,
Mirmillo 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 Greife and unavailing Care;
Machaon too, the Great Machaon, known
By his red Cloak, and his Superior frown,
And why (he cry'd) this Greife, and this Dispair?
You shall again be well, again be fair,
Beleive my Oath (with that an Oath he swore),
False was his Oath! my Beauty is no more.
 Cease hapless Maid, no more thy Tale persue,
Forsake Mankind, and bid the World Adieu.
Monarchs, and Beauties rule with equal sway,
All strive to serve, and Glory to obey,
Alike unpity'd when depos'd they grow,
Men mock the Idol of their Former vow.
 Adieu ye Parks, in some obscure recess,
Where Gentle streams will weep at my Distress,
Where no false Freind will in my Greife take part,
And mourn my Ruin with a Joyfull Heart,
There let me live, in some deserted Place,
There hide in shades this lost Inglorious Face.
Ye Operas, Circles, I no more must view!
My Toilette, Patches, all the Wo(rl)d Adieu!
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