That Death should get a numerous breed; Young deathlings, who, by practice made Proficient in their father's trade, With colonies might stock around His large dominions under ground. A consult of coquettes below Was call'd, to rig him out a beau; From her own head Megaera[1] takes A periwig of twisted snakes:      Which in the nicest fashion curl'd,      (Like toupees[2] of this upper world)      With flower of sulphur powder'd well, That graceful on his shoulders fell; An adder of the sable kind In line direct hung down behind:      The owl, the raven, and the bat, Clubb'd for a feather to his hat:      His coat, a usurer's velvet pall, Bequeath'd to Pluto, corpse and all. But, loath his person to expose Bare, like a carcass pick'd by crows, A lawyer, o'er his hands and face Stuck artfully a parchment case. No new flux'd rake show'd fairer skin; Nor Phyllis after lying in. With snuff was fill'd his ebon box, Of shin-bones rotted by the pox. Nine spirits of blaspheming fops, With aconite anoint his chops; And give him words of dreadful sounds, G—d d—n his blood! and b—d and w—ds!'        Thus furnish'd out, he sent his train To take a house in Warwick-lane:[3]      The faculty, his humble friends, A complimental message sends:      Their president in scarlet gown Harangued, and welcomed him to town. But Death had business to dispatch; His mind was running on his match. And hearing much of Daphne's fame, His majesty of terrors came, Fine as a colonel of the guards, To visit where she sat at cards; She, as he came into the room, Thought him Adonis in his bloom. And now her heart with pleasure jumps, She scarce remembers what is trumps; For such a shape of skin and bone Was never seen except her own. Charm'd with his eyes, and chin, and snout, Her pocket-glass drew slily out; And grew enamour'd with her phiz, As just the counterpart of his.      She darted many a private glance, And freely made the first advance; Was of her beauty grown so vain, She doubted not to win the swain; Nothing she thought could sooner gain him, Than with her wit to entertain him. She ask'd about her friends below; This meagre fop, that batter'd beau; Whether some late departed toasts Had got gallants among the ghosts? If Chloe were a sharper still As great as ever at quadrille?      (The ladies there must needs be rooks, For cards, we know, are Pluto's books.)      If Florimel had found her love, For whom she hang'd herself above? How oft a-week was kept a ball By Proserpine at 

 Prev. P 49/284 next