Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 8.djvu/101

 If from adown the hopeful chops The fat upon the cinder drops, To stinking smoke it turns the flame, Poisoning the flesh from whence it came, And up exhales a greasy stench, For which you curse the careless wench: So things which must not be exprest, When plump'd into the reeking chest, Send up an excremental smell To taint the parts from whence they fell; The petticoats and gown perfume, And waft a stink round every room. Thus finishing his grand survey, Disgusted Strephon stole away; Repeating in his amorous fits, "Oh! Cælia, Cælia, Cælia sh—!" But Vengeance, goddess never sleeping, Soon punish'd Strephon for his peeping: His foul imagination links Each dame he sees with all her stinks; And, if unsavoury odours fly, Conceives a lady standing by. All women his description fits, And both ideas jump like wits; By vicious fancy coupled fast, And still appearing in contrast. I pity wretched Strephon, blind To all the charms of woman kind. Should I the Queen of Love refuse, Because she rose from stinking ooze? To him that looks behind the scene, Statira's but some pocky queanqueen [sic]. When Cælia all her glory shows, If Strephon would but stop his nose,