To Mrs. Frances--Arabella Kelly.

To Day, as at my Glass I stood, To set my Head--cloaths, and my Hood; I saw my grizzled Locks with Dread, And call'd to mind the Gorgon's Head. Thought I, whate'er the Poets say, Medusa's Hair was only gray: Tho' Ovid, who the Story told, Was too well--bred to call her old; But, what amounted to the same, He made her an immortal Dame. Yet now, whene'er a Matron sage Hath felt the rugged Hand of Age, You hear out witty Coxcombs cry, Rot that old Witch--she'll never die. Tho', had they but a little Reading, Ovid would teach them better Breeding. I fancy now, I hear you say, Grant Heav'n, my Locks may ne'er be gray! Why am I told this frightful Story? To Beauty a Memento mori. And, as along the Room you pass, Casting your Eye upon the Glass, Surely, say you, this lovely Face Will never suffer such Disgrace: The Bloom, that on my Cheek appears, Will never be impair'd by Years. Her Envy, now, I plainly see, Makes her inscribe those Lines to me. These Beldams, who were born before me, Are griev'd to see the Men adore me: Their snaky Locks freeze up the Blood; My Tresses fire the purple Flood. Unnumber'd Slaves around me wait, And from my Eyes expect their Fate: I own, of Conquest I am vain, Tho' I despise the Slaves I gain. Heav'n gave me Charms, and destin'd me For universal Tyranny.