Reading of "The Lady's Dressing Room" By Jonathan Swift

This is The Lady's Dressing-Room by Jonathan Swift, written, I believe, 1732. Five hours, and who can do it lessen, by haughty Celia, spent in dressing. The goddess from her chamber sews, arrayed in lace, brocades, and tissues. Strephon, who found the room was void, 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. And first, a dirty smock appeared, beneath the armpits well besmeared. Strephon, the rogue, displayed it wide, and turned it round on every 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, filled up with dirt so closely fixed, no brush could force away betwixt. A paste of composition rare, sweat dandruff, powder, lead, and hair. A forehead cloth with oil upon it, to smooth the wrinkles on her front. Here alum flour, to stop the steams, exhaled from sour, unsavory streams. There nightgloves made of Tripsie's hide, bequeathed by Tripsie when she died. With puppy water, beauty's help, distilled from Tripsie's darling whelp. Here gallipots and vials placed, some filled with washes, some with paste. Some with pomatum, paints and slops, and ointments good for scabby chops. Hard by a filthy basin stands, fouled with the scourings of her hands. The basin takes whatever comes, the scrapings of her teeth and gums, a nasty compound of all hues, for here she spits, and here she spews. But oh, it turned poor Straffon's bowels, when he beheld and smelt the towels. Be gummed, be mattered, and be slimed with dirt and sweat, and earwax grimed. No object Straffon's eye escapes, here petticoats in frowsy heaps. Nor be the handkerchiefs forgot, all varnished o'er with snuff and snot. 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, to pluck her brows and 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. When frightened Straffon cast his eye on it, it showed the visage of a giant. A glass that can to sight disclose, the smallest worm in Celia's nose. And faithfully direct her nail, to squeeze it out from head to tail. For catch it nicely by the head, it must come out alive or dead. Why Straffon will you tell the rest, and must you needs describe the chest? That careless wench, no creature warned her to move it out from yonder corner. But leave it standing in full sight, for you to exercise your spite. In vain the workman showed his wit with rings and hinges counterfeit. To make it seem in this disguise, a cabinet to vulgarize. For Straffon ventured to look in, resolved to go through thick and thin. He lifts the lid, there needs no more. He smelt it all the time before. As from within Pandora's box, when Epithemius opened up the locks. A sudden universal crew of humane evils upward flew. He still was comforted to find, that hope at last remained behind. So Straffon lifting up the lid, to view what in the chest was hid. The vapors flew out from the vent. But Straffon cautious never meant, the bottom of the pan to grope. And foul his hands in search of hope. Oh never may such vile machine, be once in Celia's chamber seen. Oh 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. As laws of cookery require, and toast them at the clearest fire. If from a down the hopful chops, the fat upon a cinder drops. To stinking smoke it turns the flame, poisoning the flesh from once it came. And up exhales a greasy stench, for which you curse the careless wench. So things which must not be expressed, when plumped into the reeking chest. 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, disgusted Straffon stole away. Repeating in his amorous fits, oh Celia, Celia, Celia shits. But vengeance, goddess never sleeping, soon punished Straffon for his peeping. His foul imagination links each dame he sees with all her stinks. And if unsavory odors fly, conceives a lady standing by. All women his description fits, and both ideas jump like wits. By vicious fancy coupled fast, and still appearing in contrast. I pity wretched Straffon, blind to all the charms of female kind. 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, if Straffon 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. 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.