The Lady's
Dressing Room
by Jonathan Swift (1667-1745)
Five hours, (and who can
do it less in?)
By haughty Celia spent in
dressing;
The goddess from her
chamber issues,
Arrayed in lace,
brocades, and tissues.
Strephon, who found the
room was void
5
And Betty otherwise
employed,
Stole in and took a
strict survey
Of all the litter as it
lay;
Whereof, to make the
matter clear,
An inventory follows
here.
10
And first a dirty smock
appeared,
Beneath the arm-pits well
besmeared.
Strephon, the rogue,
displayed it wide
And turned it round on
every side.
On such a point few words
are best,
15
And Strephon bids us
guess the rest;
And swears how damnably
men lie
In calling Celia sweet
and cleanly.
Now listen while he next
produces
The various combs for
various uses,
20
Filled up with dirt so
closely fixt,
No brush could force a
way betwixt.
A paste of composition
rare,
Sweat, dandruff, powder,
lead and hair;
A forehead cloth with oil
upon't
25
To smooth the wrinkles on
her front.
Here alum flower to stop
the steams
Exhaled from sour
unsavory streams;
There night-gloves made
of Tripsy's hide,
Bequeath'd by Tripsy when
she died,
30
With puppy water,
beauty's help,
Distilled from Tripsy's
darling whelp;
Here gallypots and vials
placed,
Some filled with washes,
some with paste,
Some with pomatum, paints
and slops,
35
And ointments good for
scabby chops.
Hard by a filthy basin
stands,
Fouled with the scouring
of her hands;
The basin takes whatever
comes,
The scrapings of her
teeth and gums,
40
A nasty compound of all
hues,
For here she spits, and
here she spews.
But oh! it turned poor
Strephon's bowels,
When he beheld and smelt
the towels,
Begummed, besmattered,
and beslimed
45
With dirt, and sweat, and
ear-wax grimed.
No object Strephon's eye
escapes:
Here petticoats in frowzy
heaps;
Nor be the handkerchiefs
forgot
All varnished o'er with
snuff and snot.
50
The stockings, why should
I expose,
Stained with the marks of
stinking toes;
Or greasy coifs and
pinners reeking,
Which Celia slept at
least a week in?
A pair of tweezers next
he found
55
To pluck her brows in
arches round,
Or hairs that sink the
forehead low,
Or on her chin like
bristles grow.
The virtues we must not
let pass,
Of Celia's magnifying
glass.
60
When frighted Strephon
cast his eye on't
It shewed the visage of a
giant.
A glass that can to sight
disclose
The smallest worm in
Celia's nose,
And faithfully direct her
nail
65
To squeeze it out from
head to tail;
(For catch it nicely by
the head,
It must come out alive or
dead.)
Why Strephon will you
tell the rest?
And must you needs
describe the chest?
70
That careless wench! no
creature warn her
To move it out from
yonder corner;
But leave it standing
full in sight
For you to exercise your
spite.
In vain, the workman
shewed his wit
75
With rings and hinges
counterfeit
To make it seem in this
disguise
A cabinet to vulgar eyes;
For Strephon ventured to
look in,
Resolved to go through
thick and thin;
80
He lifts the lid, there
needs no more:
He smelt it all the time
before.
As from within Pandora's
box,
When Epimetheus oped the
locks,
A sudden universal
crew
85
Of humane evils upwards
flew,
He still was comforted to
find
That Hope at last
remained behind;
So Strephon lifting up
the lid
To view what in the chest
was hid,
90
The vapours flew from out
the vent.
But Strephon cautious
never meant
The bottom of the pan to
grope
And foul his hands in
search of Hope.
O never may such vile
machine
95
Be once in Celia's
chamber seen!
O may she better learn to
keep
"Those secrets of the
hoary deep"!
As mutton cutlets, prime
of meat,
Which, though with art
you salt and beat 100
As laws of cookery require
And toast them at the
clearest fire,
If from adown the hopeful
chops
The fat upon the cinder
drops,
To stinking smoke it
turns the flame
105
Poisoning the flesh from
whence it came;
And up exhales a greasy
stench
For which you curse the
careless wench;
So things which must not
be exprest,
When plumpt into the
reeking chest,
110
Send up an excremental
smell
To taint the parts from
whence they fell,
The petticoats and gown
perfume,
Which waft a stink round
every room.
Thus finishing his grand
survey,
115
Disgusted Strephon stole
away
Repeating in his amorous
fits,
Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia
shits!
But vengeance, Goddess
never sleeping,
Soon punished Strephon
for his peeping 120
His foul Imagination links
Each dame he see with all
her stinks;
And, if unsavory odors
fly,
Conceives a lady standing
by.
All women his description
fits,
125
And both ideas jump like
wits
By vicious fancy coupled
fast,
And still appearing in
contrast.
I pity wretched Strephon
blind
To all the charms of
female kind.
130
Should I the Queen of
Love refuse
Because she rose from
stinking ooze?
To him that looks behind
the scene
Satira's but some pocky
queen.
When Celia in her glory
shows,
135
If Strephon would but
stop his nose
(Who now so impiously
blasphemes
Her ointments, daubs, and
paints and creams,
Her washes, slops, and
every clout
With which he makes so
foul a rout),
140
He soon would learn to
think like me
And bless his ravished
sight to see
Such order from confusion
sprung,
Such gaudy tulips raised
from dung.
The Reasons that
Induced Dr S to write a Poem call'd
the
Lady's Dressing room
by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu (1689-1762)
The Doctor in a clean
starch'd band,
His Golden Snuff box in his hand,
With care his Di'mond Ring displays
And Artfull shews its various Rays,
While Grave he stalks down -- -- Street
5
His dearest Betty -- to meet.
Long had he waited for this Hour,
Nor gain'd Admittance to the Bower,
Had jok'd and punn'd, and swore and writ,
Try'd all his Galantry and Wit,
10
Had told her oft what part he bore
In Oxford's Schemes in days of yore,
But Bawdy, Politicks nor Satyr
Could move this dull hard hearted Creature.
Jenny her Maid could taste a Rhyme
15
And greiv'd to see him lose his Time,
Had kindly whisper'd in his Ear,
For twice two pound you enter here,
My lady vows without that Summ
It is in vain you write or come.
20
The Destin'd Offering now he brought
And in a paradise of thought
With a low Bow approach'd the Dame
Who smileing heard him preach his Flame.
His Gold she takes (such proofes as these
25
Convince most unbeleiving shees)
And in her trunk rose up to lock it
(Too wise to trust it in her pocket)
And then return'd with Blushing Grace
Expects the Doctor's warm Embrace.
30
But now this is the proper place
Where morals Stare me in the Face
And for the sake of fine Expression
I'm forc'd to make a small digression.
Alas for wretched Humankind,
35
With Learning Mad, with wisdom blink!
The Ox thinks he's for Saddle fit
(As long ago Freind Horace writ)
And Men their Talents still mistakeing,
The stutterer fancys his is speaking.
40
With Admiration oft we see
Hard Features heighten'd by Toupée,
The Beau affects the Politician,
Wit is the citizen's Ambition,
Poor Pope Philosophy displays on
45
With so much Rhime and little reason,
And thô he argues ne'er so long
That, all is right, his Head is wrong.
None strive to know their proper merit
But strain for Wisdom, Beauty, Spirit,
50
And lose the Praise that is their due
While they've th'impossible in view.
So have I seen the Injudicious Heir
To add one Window the whole House impair.
Instinct the Hound does better teach
55
Who never undertook to preach,
The frighted Hare from Dogs does run
But not attempts to bear a Gun.
Here many Noble thoughts occur
But I prolixity abhor,
60
And will persue th'instructive Tale
To shew the Wise in some things fail.
The Reverend Lover with surprize
Peeps in her Bubbys, and her Eyes,
And kisses both, and trys--and trys.
65
The Evening in this Hellish Play,
Beside his Guineas thrown away,
Provok'd the Preist to that degree
he swore, the Fault is not in me.
Your damn'd Close stool so near my Nose,
70
Your Dirty Smock, and Stinking Toes
Would make a Hercules as tame
As any Beau that you can name.
The nymph grown Furious roar'd by God
The blame lyes all in Sixty odd
75
And scornfull pointing to the door
Cry'd, Fumbler see my Face no more.
With all my Heart I'll go away
But nothing done, I'll nothing pay.
Give back the Money--How, cry'd she,
80
[I lock'd it in the Trunk stands there
And break it open if you dare.]
Would you palm such a cheat on me!
For poor 4 pound to roar and bellow,
Why sure you want some new Prunella?
85
[What if your Verses have not sold,
Must therefore I return your Gold?
Perhaps your have no better Luck in
The Knack of Rhyming than of --
I won't give back one single Crown,
90
To wash your Band, or turn your Gown.]
I'll be reveng'd you saucy Quean
(Replys the disapointed Dean)
I'll so describe your dressing room
The very Irish shall not come.
95
She answer'd short, I'm glad you'l write,
You'l furnish paper when I shite.