The Toilette

Now twenty springs had clothed 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,
No chairs, no coaches crowd her silent door;
Her midnights once at cards and hazard fled,
Which now, alas! she dreams away in bed.
Around her wait Shocks, monkeys, and macaws,
To fill the place of fops, and perjured beaus;
In these she views the mimicry of man,
And smiles when grinning Pug gallants her fan;
When Poll repeats, the sounds deceive her ear,
For sounds, like his, once told her Damon's care.
With these alone her tedious mornings pass;
Or at the dumb devotion of her glass,
She smooths her brow, and frizzles forth her hairs,
And fancies youthful dress gives youthful airs;
With crimson wool she fixes ev'ry grace,
That not a blush can discompose her face.
Reclined upon her arm she pensive sate,
And cursed th' inconstancy of youth 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 di'mond grave my name,
And rhymes misspell'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-gloved beaus encroach
In crowds behind, to guard me to my coach.
Ah, hapless nymph! such conquests are no more,
For Chloe's now what Lydia was before!
'Tis true, this Chloe boasts the peach's bloom,
But does her nearer whisper breathe perfume?
I own her taper shape is form'd to please —
Yet if you saw her unconfined by stays!
She doubly to fifteen may make pretence,
Alike we read it in her face and sense.
Her reputation! but that never yet
Could check the freedoms of a young coquet.
Why will ye then, vain fops, her eyes believe?
Her eyes can, like your perjured tongues, deceive.
What shall I do? how spend the hateful day?
At chapel shall I wear the morn away?
Who there frequents at these unmodish hours,
But ancient matrons with their frizzled towers,
And gray religious maids? my presence there
Amid that sober train would own despair;
Nor am I yet so old; nor is my glance
As yet fixt wholly to devotion's trance.
Straight then I'll dress, and take my wonted range
Through ev'ry Indian shop, through all the Change;
Where the tall jar erects his costly pride,
With antic shapes in china's azure dyed;
There careless lies the rich brocade unroll'd,
Here shines a cabinet with burnish'd gold;
But then remembrance will my grief renew,
'Twas there the raffling dice false Damon threw;
The raffling dice to him decide the prize.
'Twas there he first conversed with Chloe's eyes;
Hence sprung th' ill-fated cause of all my smart,
To me the toy he gave, to her his heart.
But soon thy perj'ry in the gift was found,
The shiver'd china dropt upon the ground;
Sure omen that thy vows would faithless prove;
Frail was thy present, frailer is thy love.
O happy Poll, in wiry prison pent;
Thou ne'er hast known what love or rivals meant;
And Pug with pleasure can his fetters bear,
Who ne'er believed the vows that lovers swear!
How am I curst! (unhappy and forlorn)
With perjury, with love, and rival's scorn!
False are the loose coquet's inveigling airs,
False is the pompous grief of youthful heirs,
False is the cringing 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.
Fly from perfidious man, the sex disdain;
Let servile Chloe wear the nuptial chain.
Damon is practised in the modish life,
Can hate, and yet be civil to a wife.
He games; he swears; he drinks; he fights; he roves;
Yet Chloe can believe he fondly loves.
Mistress and wife can well supply his need,
A miss for pleasure, and a wife for breed.
But Chloe's air is unconfined and gay,
And can perhaps an injured bed repay;
Perhaps her patient temper can behold
The rival of her love adorn'd with gold,
Powder'd with di'monds; free from thought and care,
A husband's sullen humours she can bear.
Why are these sobs? and why these streaming eyes?
Is love the cause? no, I the sex despise;
I hate, I loathe his base perfidious name.
Yet if he should but feign a rival flame?
But Chloe boasts and triumphs in my pains,
To her he's faithful, 'tis to me he feigns.
Thus love-sick Lydia raved. Her maid appears;
A band-box in her steady hand she bears.
How well this ribband's gloss becomes your face!
She cries, in raptures then, so sweet a lace!
How charmingly you look! so bright! so fair!
'Tis to your eyes the head-dress owes its air.
Straight Lydia smiled; the comb adjusts her locks,
And at the playhouse Harry keeps her box.