[Footnote 1: See Cunningham's "Handbook of London." Bridewell was the Prison to which harlots were sent, and were made to beat hemp and pick oakum and were whipped if they did not perform their tasks. See the Plate in Hogarth's "Harlot's Progress." The Prison has, happily, been cleared away. The hall, court room, etc., remain at 14, New Bridge Street. The Compter, a similar Prison, was also abolished. For details of these abominations, see "London Past and Present," by Wheatley.--_W. E. B._] [Footnote 2: Jamaica seems to have been regarded as a place of exile. See "A quiet life and a good name," _ante_, p. 152.--_W. E. B_.] [Footnote 3: See _ante_, p. 78, "Descripton of a City Shower."--_W. E. B_.] STREPHON AND CHLOE 1731 Of Chloe all the town has rung, By ev'ry size of poets sung: So beautiful a nymph appears But once in twenty thousand years; By Nature form'd with nicest care, And faultless to a single hair. Her graceful mien, her shape, and face, Confess'd her of no mortal race: And then so nice, and so genteel; Such cleanliness from head to heel; No humours gross, or frouzy steams, No noisome whiffs, or sweaty streams, Before, behind, above, below, Could from her taintless body flow: Would so discreetly things dispose, None ever saw her pluck a rose.[1] Her dearest comrades never caught her Squat on her hams to make maid's water: You'd swear that so divine a creature Felt no necessities of nature. In summer had she walk'd the town, Her armpits would not stain her gown: At country dances, not a nose Could in the dog-days smell her toes. Her milk-white hands, both palms and backs, Like ivory dry, and soft as wax. Her hands, the softest ever felt, [2] Though cold would burn, though dry would melt. Dear Venus, hide this wond'rous maid, Nor let her loose to spoil your trade. While she engrosses ev'ry swain, You but o'er half the world can reign. Think what a case all men are now in, What ogling, sighing, toasting, vowing! What powder'd wigs! what flames and darts! What hampers full of bleeding hearts! What sword-knots! what poetic strains! What billets-doux, and clouded canes! But Strephon sigh'd so loud and strong, He blew a settlement along; And bravely drove his rivals down, With coach and six, and house in town. The bashful nymph no more withstands, Because her dear papa commands. The charming couple now unites: Proceed we to the marriage rites. _Imprimis_, at the Temple porch Stood Hymen with a flaming torch: The smiling Cyprian Goddess brings Her infant loves with purple wings: And pigeons billing, sparrows treading, Fair emblems of a fruitful wedding. The Muses next in order follow, Conducted by their squire, Apollo: Then Mercury with silver tongue; And Hebe, goddess ever young. Behold, the bridegroom and his bride Walk hand in hand, and side by side; She, by the tender Graces drest, But he, by Mars, in scarlet vest. The nymph was cover'd with her _flammeum_[3], And Phoebus sung th'epithalamium[4].