The lady's Dressing Room

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,

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,

A nasty compound of all hues,

For here she spits, and here she spues.