An Epigram to the Small-pox

Envious and foul Disease, could there not
One beauty in an age, and free from thee?
What did she worth thy spite? were there not store
Of those that set by their false faces more
Than this did by her true? she never sought
Quarrel with nature, or in balance brought
Art her false servant; nor, for sir Hugh Plat,
Was drawn to practise other hue, than that
Her own blood gave her: she ne'er had, nor hath
Any belief in madam Bawdbee's bath,
Or Turner's oil of talc: nor ever got
Spanish receipt to make her teeth to rot.
What was the cause then? thought'st thou, in disgrace
Of beauty, so to nullify a face,
That heaven should make no more; or should amiss
Make all hereafter, hadst thou ruin'd this?
Ay, that thy aim was; but her fate prevail'd:
And, scorn'd, thou'st shown thy malice, but hast fail'd!