Anne Finch

A Nocturnal Reverie (1713)

In such a night, when every louder wind

Is to its distant cavern safe confined;
And only gentle Zephyr fans his wings,
And lonely Philomel, still waking, sings;
Or from some tree, famed for the owl’s delight,
She, hollowing clear, directs the wand’rer right:
In such a night, when passing clouds give place,
Or thinly veil the heav’ns’ mysterious face;
When in some river, overhung with green,
The waving moon and the trembling leaves are seen;
When freshened grass now bears itself upright,
And makes cool banks to pleasing rest invite,
Whence springs the woodbind, and the bramble-rose,
And where the sleepy cowslip sheltered grows;
Whilst now a paler hue the foxglove takes,
Yet checkers still with red the dusky brakes
When scatter’d glow-worms, but in twilight fine,
Shew trivial beauties, watch their hour to shine;
Whilst Salisb’ry stands the test of every light,
In perfect charms, and perfect virtue bright:
When odors, which declined repelling day,
Through temp’rate air uninterrupted stray;
When darkened groves their softest shadows wear,
And falling waters we distinctly hear;
When through the gloom more venerable shows
Some ancient fabric, awful in repose,
While sunburnt hills their swarthy looks conceal,
And swelling haycocks thicken up the vale:
When the loosed horse now, as his pasture leads,
Comes slowly grazing through th’ adjoining meads,
Whose stealing pace, and lengthened shade we fear,
Till torn-up forage in his teeth we hear:
When nibbling sheep at large pursue their food,
And unmolested kine rechew the cud;
When curlews cry beneath the village walls,
And to her straggling brood the partridge calls;
Their shortlived jubilee the creatures keep,
Which but endures, whilst tyrant man does sleep;
When a sedate content the spirit feels,
And no fierce light disturbs, whilst it reveals;
But silent musings urge the mind to seek
Something, too high for syllables to speak;
Till the free soul to a composedness charmed,
Finding the elements of rage disarmed,
O’er all below a solemn quiet grown,
Joys in th’ inferior world, and thinks it like her own:
In such a night let me abroad remain,
Till morning breaks, and all’s confused again;
Our cares, our toils, our clamors are renewed,
Or pleasures, seldom reached, again pursued.

Jonathan Swift

A Description of the Morning

Now hardly here and there a hackney-coach

Appearing, show'd the ruddy morn's approach.
Now Betty from her master's bed had flown,
And softly stole to discompose her own.
The slip-shod 'prentice from his master's door
Had par'd the dirt, and sprinkled round the floor.
Now Moll had whirl'd her mop with dext'rous airs,
Prepar'd to scrub the entry and the stairs.
The youth with broomy stumps began to trace
The kennel-edge, where wheels had worn the place.
The small-coal man was heard with cadence deep;
Till drown'd in shriller notes of "chimney-sweep."
Duns at his lordship's gate began to meet;
And brickdust Moll had scream'd through half a street.
The turnkey now his flock returning sees,
Duly let out a-nights to steal for fees.
The watchful bailiffs take their silent stands;
And schoolboys lag with satchels in their hands.
Jonathan Swift

A Description of a City Shower

Careful observers may foretell the hour

(By sure prognostics) when to dread a shower:
While rain depends, the pensive cat gives o’er
Her frolics, and pursues her tail no more.
Returning home at night, you’ll find the sink
Strike your offended sense with double stink.
If you be wise, then go not far to dine;
You’ll spend in coach hire more than save in wine.
A coming shower your shooting corns presage,
Old achès throb, your hollow tooth will rage.
Sauntering in coffeehouse is Dulman seen;
He damns the climate and complains of spleen.
Meanwhile the South, rising with dabbled wings,
A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings,
That swilled more liquor than it could contain,
And, like a drunkard, gives it up again.
Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope,
While the first drizzling shower is born aslope:
Such is that sprinkling which some careless quean
Flirts on you from her mop, but not so clean:
You fly, invoke the gods; then turning, stop
To rail; she singing, still whirls on her mop.
Not yet the dust had shunned the unequal strife,
But, aided by the wind, fought still for life,
And wafted with its foe by violent gust,
’Twas doubtful which was rain and which was dust.
Ah! where must needy poet seek for aid,
When dust and rain at once his coat invade?
Sole coat, where dust cemented by the rain
Erects the nap, and leaves a mingled stain.
Now in contiguous drops the flood comes down,
Threatening with deluge this devoted town.
To shops in crowds the daggled females fly,
Pretend to cheapen goods, but nothing buy.
The Templar spruce, while every spout’s abroach,
Stays till ’tis fair, yet seems to call a coach.
The tucked-up sempstress walks with hasty strides,
While seams run down her oiled umbrella’s sides.
Here various kinds, by various fortunes led,
Commence acquaintance underneath a shed.
Triumphant Tories and desponding Whigs
Forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs.
Boxed in a chair the beau impatient sits,
While spouts run clattering o’er the roof by fits,
And ever and anon with frightful din
The leather sounds; he trembles from within.
So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed,
Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed
(Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do,
Instead of paying chairmen, run them through),
Laocoön struck the outside with his spear,
And each imprisoned hero quaked for fear.
Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow,
And bear their trophies with them as they go:
Filth of all hues and odors seem to tell
What street they sailed from, by their sight and smell.
They, as each torrent drives with rapid force,
From Smithfield or St. Pulchre’s shape their course,
And in huge confluence joined at Snow Hill ridge,
Fall from the conduit prone to Holborn Bridge.
Sweepings from butchers’ stalls, dung, guts, and blood,
Drowned puppies, stinking sprats, all drenched in mud,
Dead cats, and turnip tops, come tumbling down the flood.

Alexander Pope

The Rape of the Lock: Canto 1

And now, unveil'd, the toilet stands display'd,

Each silver vase in mystic order laid.
First, rob'd in white, the nymph intent adores
With head uncover'd, the cosmetic pow'rs.
A heav'nly image in the glass appears,
To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears;
Th' inferior priestess, at her altar's side,
Trembling, begins the sacred rites of pride.
Unnumber'd treasures ope at once, and here
The various off'rings of the world appear;
From each she nicely culls with curious toil,
And decks the goddess with the glitt'ring spoil.
This casket India's glowing gems unlocks,
And all Arabia breathes from yonder box.
The tortoise here and elephant unite,
Transform'd to combs, the speckled and the white.
Here files of pins extend their shining rows,
Puffs, powders, patches, bibles, billet-doux.
Now awful beauty puts on all its arms;
The fair each moment rises in her charms,
Repairs her smiles, awakens ev'ry grace,
And calls forth all the wonders of her face;
Sees by degrees a purer blush arise,
And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes.
The busy Sylphs surround their darling care;
These set the head, and those divide the hair,
Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the gown;
And Betty's prais'd for labours not her own.

Mary Leapor

DORINDA at her Glass.

1 DORINDA, once the fairest of the Train,

2 Toast of the Town, and Triumph of the Plain;
3 Whose shining Eyes a thousand Hearts alarm'd,
4 Whose Wit inspired, and whose Follies charm'd:
5 Who, with Invention, rack'd her careful Breast
6 To find new Graces to insult the rest,
7 Now sees her Temples take a swarthy Hue,
8 And the dark Veins resign their beauteous Blue;
9 While on her Cheeks the fading Roses die,
10 And the last Sparkles tremble in her Eye.

11 Bright Sol had drove the sable Clouds away,

12 And chear'd the Heavens with a Stream of Day,
13 The woodland Choir their little Throats prepare,
14 To chant new Carols to the Morning Air:
15 In Silence wrap'd, and curtain'd from the Day,
16 On her sad Pillow lost Dorinda lay;
17 To Mirth a Stranger, and the like to Ease,
18 No Pleasures charm her, nor no Slumbers please.
19 For if to close her weary Lids she tries,
20 Detested Wrinkles swim before her Eyes;
21 At length the Mourner rais'd her aking Head,
22 And discontented left her hated Bed.
23 But sighing shun'd the Relicks of her Pride,
24 And left the Toilet for the Chimney Side:
25 Her careless Locks upon her Shoulders lay
26 Uncurl'd, alas! because they half were Gray;
27 No magick Baths employ her skilful Hand,
28 But useless Phials on her Table stand:
29 She slights her Form, no more by Youth inspir'd,
30And loaths that Idol which she once admir'd.
31 At length all trembling, of herself afraid,
32 To her lov'd Glass repair'd the weeping Maid,
33 And with a Sigh address'd the alter'd Shade.
34 Say, what art thou, that wear'st a gloomy Form,
35 With low'ring Forehead, like a northern Storm;
36 Cheeks pale and hollow, as the Face of Woe,
37 And Lips that with no gay Vermilion glow?
38 Where is that Form which this false Mirror told
39 Bloom'd like the Morn, and shou'd for Ages hold;
40 But now a Spectre in its room appears,
41 All scar'd with Furrows, and defac'd with Tears;
42 Say, com'st thou from the Regions of Despair,
43 To shake my Senses with a meagre Stare?
44 Some stragg'ling Horror may thy Phantom be,
45 But surely not the mimick Shape of me.
46 Ah! yes — the Shade its mourning Visage rears,
47 Pants when I sigh, and answers to my Tears:
48 Now who shall bow before this wither'd Shrine,
49 This Mortal Image, that was late Divine?
50 What Victim now will praise these faded Eyes,
51 Once the gay Basis for a thousand Lyes?

52 Deceitful Beauty — false as thou art gay,

53 And is it thus thy Vot'ries find their Pay;
54 This the Reward of many careful Years,
55 Of Morning Labours, and of Noon-day Fears,
56 The Gloves anointed, and the bathing Hour,
57 And soft Cosmetick's more prevailing Pow'r;
58 Yet to thy Worship still the fair Ones run,
59 And hail thy Temples with the rising Sun;
60 Still the brown Damsels to thy Altars pay
61 Sweet-scented Unguents, and the Dews of May;
62 Sempronia smooths her wrinkled Brows with Care,
63 And Isabella curls her grisled Hair:
64 See poor Augusta of her Glass afraid,
65 Who even trembles at the Name of Maid,
66 Spreads the fine Mechlin on her shaking Head,
67 While her thin Cheeks disown the mimick Red.
68 Soft Silvia, who no Lover's Breast alarms,
69 Yet simpers out the Ev'ning of her Charms,
70 And tho' her Cheek can boast no rosy Dye,
71 Her gay Brocades allure the gazing Eye.

72 But hear, my Sisters — Hear an ancient Maid,

73 Too long by Folly, and her Arts betray'd;
74 From these light Trifles turn your partial Eyes,
75 'Tis sad Dorinda prays you to be wise;
76 And thou Celinda, thou must shortly feel
77 The sad Effect of Time's revolving Wheel;
78 Thy Spring is past, thy Summer Sun declin'd,
79 See Autumn next, and Winter stalks behind:
80 But let not Reason with thy Beauties fly,
81 Nor place thy Merit in a brilliant Eye;
82 'Tis thine to charm us by sublimer ways,
83 And make thy Temper, like thy Features, please:
84 And thou, Sempronia, trudge to Morning Pray'r,
85 Nor trim thy Eye-brows with so nice a Care;
86 Dear Nymph believe — 'tis true, as you're alive,
87 Those Temples show the Marks of Fifty-five.
88 Let Isabel unload her aking Head
89 Of twisted Papers, and of binding Lead;
90 Let sage Augusta now, without a Frown,
91 Strip those gay Ribbands from her aged Crown;
92 Change the lac'd Slipper of delicious Hue
93 For a warm Stocking, and an easy Shoe;
94 Guard her swell'd Ancles from Rheumatick Pain,
95 And from her Cheek expunge the guilty Stain.

96 Wou'd smiling Silvia lay that Hoop aside,

97 'Twou'd snow her Prudence, not betray her Pride:
98 She, like the rest, had once her flagrant Day,
99 But now she twinkles in a fainter Ray.
100 Those youthful Airs set off their Mistress now,
101 Just as the Patch adorns her Autumn Brow:
102 In vain her Feet in sparkling Laces glow,
103 Since none regard her Forehead, nor her Toe.
104 Who would not burst with Laughter, or with Spleen,
105 At Prudo, once a Beauty, as I ween?
106 But now her Features wear a dusky Hue,
107 The little Loves have bid her Eyes adieu:
108 Yet she pursues the Pleasures of her Prime,
109 And vain Desires, not subdu'd by Time;
110 Thrusts in amongst the Frolick and the Gay,
111 But shuts her Daughter from the Beams of Day:
112 The Child, she says, is indolent and grave,
113 And tells the World Ophelia can't behave:
114 But while Ophelia is forbid the Room,
115 Her Mother hobbles in a Rigadoon;
116 Or to the Sound of melting Musick dies,
117 And in their Sockets rolls her blinking Eyes;
118 Or stuns the Audience with her hideous Squal,
119 While Scorn and Satire whisper through the Hall.

120 Hear this, ye fair Ones, that survive your Charms,

121 Nor reach at Folly with your aged Arms;
122 Thus Pope has sung, thus let Dorinda sing;
123 "Virtue, brave Boys, — 'tis Virtue makes a King:"
124 Why not a Queen? fair Virtue is the same
125 In the rough Hero, and the smiling Dame:
126 Dorinda's Soul her Beauties shall pursue,
127 Tho' late I see her, and embrace her too:
128 Come, ye blest Graces, that are sure to please,
129 The Smile of Friendship, and the careless Ease;
130 The Breast of Candour, the relenting Ear,
131 The Hand of Bounty, and the Heart sincere:
132 May these the Twilight of my Days attend,
133 And may that Ev'ning never want a Friend
134 To smooth my Passage to the silent Gloom,
135 And give a Tear to grace the mournful Tomb.