The Masquerade; or, Labour in Vain

ONCE Jupiter's Lady, call'd Juno the Scold,
At Toilet imagin'd herself to look old;
In a pet put a Veil on to hide her disgrace,
Then scheem'd how each Beauty shou'd shadow her face.
Sing tantararara Masks all.

First England review'd, there, amaz'd, Madam saw
Many Faces and Forms without failure or flaw;
Then others discover'd whose Features were spread,
All tasty, all pasty, with caustics of lead.

Those last pleas'd the Queen, who declar'd, with a smile,
The Folly of Fashion shou'd lead in this Isle;
The great gifts of Jove they were dup'd to despise,
And natural Beauty by Art they disguise.

'Tis an Empire, she said, of Dress, Drinking, and Song;
Of Bathing—because we are bit by Bon Ton:
Her scheme, she foretold, would succeed with the town,
For whatever's imported must always go down.

A Card flew to Pan, who was skill'd in these matters,
To model some Masks from the Portraits of Satyrs;
Of Proserpine ask'd Merry Andrew's Shade,
Without a Buffoon there is no Masquerade.

Pale Miss Affectation was order'd, in haste,
To dress up the Phantom, and call the thing Taste;
Then taught it to talk, just one phrase and no more,
Do you know me? it squeak'd, do you know me? encore.

'Twas the Thing, for 'twas foreign, it must be ador'd,—
It gagg'd depos'd Wit; when will Wit be restor'd?
When Englishmen—(thus it was Truth bid me say.
Will shew to their own Understandings fair play.

The World is no more than one vast Masquerade,
Where, by best concealments, best fortunes are made;
But why shou'd Plain Dealing pretend to complain,
Reformation to Labour is—Labour in vain.
Sing tantararara Masks all.