For sure, if this be Luna’s fate,
  Poor Celia, but of mortal race,
In vain expects a longer date
  To the materials of her face.

When Mercury her tresses mows,
  To think of oil and soot is vain: 
No painting can restore a nose,
  Nor will her teeth return again.

Two balls of glass may serve for eyes,
  White lead can plaister up a cleft;
But these, alas, are poor supplies
  If neither cheeks nor lips be left.

Ye powers who over love preside! 
  Since mortal beauties drop so soon,
If ye would have us well supplied,
  Send us new nymphs with each new moon!

[Footnote 1:  Collated with the copy transcribed by Stella.—­Forster.]

[Footnote 2:  Gadbury, an astrologer, wrote a series of ephemerides.—­W.  E. B.]

[Footnote 3:  John Flamsteed, the celebrated astronomer-royal, born in August, 1646, died in December, 1719.  For a full account of him, see “Dictionary of National Biography.”—­W.  E. B.]

THE PROGRESS OF MARRIAGE[1]

AETATIS SUAE fifty-two,
A reverend Dean began to woo[2]
A handsome, young, imperious girl,
Nearly related to an earl.[3]
Her parents and her friends consent;
The couple to the temple went: 
They first invite the Cyprian queen;
’Twas answer’d, “She would not be seen;”
But Cupid in disdain could scarce
Forbear to bid them kiss his ——­
The Graces next, and all the Muses,
Were bid in form, but sent excuses. 
Juno attended at the porch,
With farthing candle for a torch;
While mistress Iris held her train,
The faded bow bedropt with rain. 
Then Hebe came, and took her place,
But show’d no more than half her face. 
  Whate’er these dire forebodings meant,
In joy the marriage-day was spent;
The marriage-day, you take me right,
I promise nothing for the night. 
The bridegroom, drest to make a figure,
Assumes an artificial vigour;
A flourish’d nightcap on, to grace
His ruddy, wrinkled, smirking face;
Like the faint red upon a pippin,
Half wither’d by a winter’s keeping. 
  And thus set out this happy pair,
The swain is rich, the nymph is fair;
But, what I gladly would forget,
The swain is old, the nymph coquette. 
Both from the goal together start;
Scarce run a step before they part;
No common ligament that binds
The various textures of their minds;
Their thoughts and actions, hopes and fears,
Less corresponding than their years. 
The Dean desires his coffee soon,
She rises to her tea at noon. 
While the Dean goes out to cheapen books,
She at the glass consults her looks;
While Betty’s buzzing at her ear,
Lord, what a dress these parsons wear! 
So odd a choice how could she make! 
Wish’d him a colonel for her sake. 
Then, on her finger ends she counts,