Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 8.djvu/109



ORINNA, pride of Drurylane, For whom no shepherd sighs in vain; Never did Covent-garden boast So bright a batter'd strolling toast! No drunken rake to pick her up; No cellar, where on tick to sup; Returning at the midnight hour, Four stories climbing to her bower; Then, seated on a three-legg'd chair, Takes off her artificial hair; Now picking out a crystal eye, She wipes it clean, and lays it by. Her eyebrows from a mouse's hide Stuck on with art on either side, Pulls off with care, and first displays 'em, Then in a play-book smoothly lays 'em. Now dextrously her plumpers draws, That serve to fill her hollow jaws. Untwists a wire, and from her gums A set of teeth completely comes; Pulls out the rags contrived to prop Her flabby dugs, and down they drop. Proceeding on, the lovely goddess Unlaces next her steel-ribb'd bodice, Which, by the operator's skill, Press down the lumps, the hollows fill. Rh