Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 8.djvu/98

88 The goddess from her chamber issues, Array'd in lace, brocades, and tissues. Strephon, who found the room was void, And Betty otherwise employ'd, Stole in, and took a strict survey Of all the litter as it lay: Whereof, to make the matter clear, An inventory follows here. And, first, a dirty smock appear'd, Beneath the armpits well besmear'd; Strephon, the rogue, display'd it wide, And turn'd it round on every side: On such a point, few words are best, And Strephon bids us guess the rest; But swears, how damnably the men lie In calling Cælia sweet and cleanly. Now listen, while he next produces The various combs for various uses; Fill'd up with dirt so closely fixt, No brush could force a way betwixt; A paste of composition rare, Sweat, dandriff, powder, lead, and hair: A forehead-cloth with oil upon 't, To smooth the wrinkles on her front: Here alum-flower, to stop the steams Exhal'd from sour unsavoury streams; There night-gloves made of Tripsey's hide, Bequeath'd by Tripsey when she died; With puppy-water, beauty's help, Distill'd from Tripsey's darling whelp. Here gallipots and vials plac'd, Some fill'd with washes, some with paste; Some with pomatums, paints, and slops, And ointments good for scabby chops. Hard