Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/199

Rh But, let the cause be what it will, In half a month she looks so thin, That Flamsteed can, with all his skill, See but her forehead and her chin. Yet, as she wastes, she grows discreet, Till midnight never shows her head: So rotting Celia strolls the street, When sober folks are all abed: For sure, if this be Luna's fate, Poor Celia, but of mortal race, In vain expects a longer date To the materials of her face. When Mercury her tresses mows, To think of black lead combs is vain; No painting can restore a nose, Nor will her teeth return again. Ye powers, who over love preside! Since mortal beauties drop so soon, If ye would have us well supply'd, Send us new nymphs with each new moon!

HE farmer's goose, who in the stubble Has fed without restraint or trouble, Grown fat with corn and sitting still, Can scarce get o'er the barndoor sill; And hardly waddles forth to cool Her belly in the neighbouring pool; Nor