[Footnote 3:  This trial took place in 1723; but being only found guilty of an assault, with intent to commit the crime, the worthy colonel was fined L300 to the private party prosecuting.  See a full account of Chartres in the notes to Pope’s “Moral Essays,” Epistle III, and the Satirical Epitaph by Arbuthnot.  Carruthers’ Edition.—­W.  E. B.]

ON STEPHEN DUCK THE THRESHER, AND FAVOURITE POET

A QUIBBLING EPIGRAM. 1730

The thresher Duck[1] could o’er the queen prevail,
The proverb says, “no fence against a flail.” 
From threshing corn he turns to thresh his brains;
For which her majesty allows him grains: 
Though ’tis confest, that those, who ever saw
His poems, think them all not worth a straw! 
  Thrice happy Duck, employ’d in threshing stubble,
Thy toil is lessen’d, and thy profits double.

[Footnote 1:  Who was appointed by Queen Caroline librarian to a small
collection of books in a building called Merlin’s Cave, in the Royal
Gardens of Richmond. 
  “How shall we fill a library with wit,
  When Merlin’s cave is half unfurnish’d yet?”
POPE, Imitations of Horace, ii, Ep. 1.—­W.  E. B.]

THE LADY’S DRESSING-ROOM. 1730

Five hours (and who can do it less in?)
By haughty Celia spent in dressing;
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 arm-pits well besmear’d;
Strephon, the rogue, display’d it wide,
And turn’d it round on ev’ry 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 Celia 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 fore-head cloth with oil upon’t,
To smooth the wrinkles on her front: 
Here alum-flour, to stop the steams
Exhaled from sour unsavoury streams: 
There night-gloves made of Tripsey’s hide,
[1]Bequeath’d by Tripsey when she died;
With puppy-water, beauty’s help,
Distil’d from Tripsey’s darling whelp. 
Here gallipots and vials placed,
Some fill’d with washes, some with paste;
Some with pomatums, paints, and slops,
And ointments good for scabby chops. 
Hard by a filthy bason stands,
Foul’d with the scouring of her hands: 
The bason takes whatever comes,
The scrapings from her teeth and gums,