A little book I've made, but with great care,
How to preserve the face, and how repair.
In that, the nymphs by time or chance annoy'd,
May see what pains to please 'em I've employ'd,
But still beware that from your lover's eye
You keep conceal'd the med'cines you apply:
Tho' art assists, yet must that art be hid,
Lest whom it would invite it should forbid.
Who would not take offence to see a face
All daub'd and dripping with the melted grease?
And tho' your unguents bear th' Athenian name,
The wool's unsav'ry scent is still the same.
Marrow of stags, nor your pomatums try,
Nor clean your furry teeth when men are by;
For many things, when done, afford delight,
Which yet, while doing, may offend the sight.
E'en Myro's statues, which for art surpass
All others, once were but a shapeless mass;
Rude was that gold which now in rings is worn,
As once the robe you wear was wool unshorn;
Think, how that stone rough in the quarry grew,
Which now a perfect Venus shews to view.1
While we suppose you sleep, repair your face,
Lock'd from observers, in some secret place;
Add the last hand before yourselves you show,
Your need of art why should your lover know?
For many things when most conceal'd are best,
And few of strict enquiry bear the test.
Those figures which in theatres are seen,
Gilded without, are common wood within.
But no spectators are allow'd to pry
Till all is finished which allures the eye.
Yet, I must own, it oft affords delight
To have the fair one comb her hair in sight;
To view the flowing honours of her head
Fall on her neck, and o'er her shoulders spread.
But let her look that she with care avoid
All fretful humours while she's so employ'd;
Let her not still undo, with peevish haste,
All that her woman does, who does her best.
I hate a vixen that her maid assails,
And scratches with her bodkin or her nails;
While the poor girl in blood and tears must mourn,
And her heart curses what her hands adorn,
Let her who has no hair, or has but some,
Plant sentinels before her dressing-room;
Or in the fane of the good goddess dress,
Where all the male kind are debarr'd access.
'Tis said that I (but 'tis a tale devis'd)
A lady at her toilet once surpris'd,
Who starting, snatch'd in haste the tour she wore,
And in her hurry placed the hinder part before.
But on our foes fall ev'ry such disgrace,
Or barb'rous beauties of the Parthian race.
Ungraceful 'tis to see without a horn
The lofty hart whom branches best adorn,
A leafless tree, or an unverdant mead,
And as ungraceful is a hairless head.
But think not these instructions are design'd
For first-rate beauties of the finish'd kind;
Not to a Semele, or a Leda bright,2
Nor an Europa, these my rules I write;3
Nor the fair Helen4 do I teach, whose charms
Stirr'd up Atrides and all Greece to arms;
Thee to regain well was that war begun,
And Paris well defended what he won:
What lover or what husband would not fight
In such a cause, where both are in the right?
