Attend, ye nymphs, by wedlock unconfin'd,
And hear my precepts, while she prompts my mind:
Ev'n now, in bloom of youth, and beauty's prime,
Beware of coming age, nor waste your time:
Now, while you may, and ripening years invite,
Enjoy the seasonable, sweet delight:
For rolling years, like stealing waters, glide:
Nor hope to stop their ever-ebbing tide:
Think not hereafter will the loss repay;
For every morrow will the taste decay,
And leave less relish than the former day.

The hair dispos'd, may gain or lose a grace,
And much become, or misbecome, the face.
What suits your features, of your glass inquire;
For no one rule is fix'd for head-attire.
A face too long should part and flat the hair,
Lest, upward comb'd, the length too much appear:
So Laodamia dress'd. A face too round
Should show the ears, and with a tower be crown'd.
On either shoulder, one her locks displays;
Adorn'd like Phoebus, when he sings his lays:
Another, all her tresses ties behind;
So dress'd, Diana hunts the fearful hind.
Dishevell'd locks most graceful are to some;
Others, the binding fillets more become:
Some plait, like spiral shells, their braided hair,
Others, the loose and waving curl prefer.
But to recount the several dresses worn,
Which artfully each several face adorn,
Were endless, as to tell the leaves on trees,
The beasts on Alpine hills, or Hybla's bees.
Many there are, who seem to slight all care,
And with pleasing negligence ensnare;
Whose mornings oft in such a dress are spent,
And all is art that looks like accident.

I need not warn you of too powerful smells,
Which sometimes health, or kindly heat, expels.
Nor from your tender legs to pluck with care
The casual growth of all unseemly hair.
Though not to nymphs of Caucasus I sing,
Nor such who taste remote the Mysian spring;
Yet, let me warn you, that, through no neglect,
You let your teeth disclose the least defect.
You know the use of white to make you fair,
And how, with red, lost colour to repair,
Imperfect eyebrows you by art can mend,
And skin, when wanting, o'er a scar extend.
Nor need the fair-one be asham'd, who tries,
By art, to add new lustre to her eyes.
A little book I've made, but with great care,
How to preserve the face, and how repair.
In that, the nymphs, by time or chance annoy'd,
May see, what pains to please them I've employ'd.
But, still beware, that from your lover's eye
You keep conceal'd the med'cines you apply:
Though art assists, yet must that art be hid,
Lest, whom it would invite, it should forbid.
Who would not take offence, to see a face
All daub'd, and dripping with the melted grease?
And tho' your unguents bear th'Athenian name,
The wool's unsavoury scent is still the same.
Marrow of stags, not your pomatums try,
Nor clean your furry teeth, when men are by;
For many things, when done, afford delight,
Which yet, while doing, may offend the sight.

Faults in your person, or your face, correct:
And few are seen that have not some defect.
The nymph too short, her seat should seldom quit,
Lest when she stands, she may be thought to sit;
And when extended on her couch she lies,
Let the length of petticoats conceal her size.
The lean of thick-wrought stuff her clothes should choose,
And fuller made, than what the plumper use.
If pale, let her the crimson juice apply,
If swarthy, to the Pharian varnish fly.
A leg too lank, tight garters still must wear;
Nor should an ill-shaped foot be ever bare.
Round shoulders, bolster'd, will appear the least;
And lacing strait, confines too full a breast.
Whose fingers are too fat, and nails too coarse,
Should always shun much gesture in discourse.
And you, whose breath is touch'd, this caution take,
Nor fasting, nor too near another, speak.
Let not the nymph with laughter much abound,
Whose teeth are black, uneven, or unsound.
You hardly think how much on this depends,
Or how a laugh, or spoils a face, or mends.
Gape not too wide, lest you disclose your gums,
And lose the dimple which the cheek becomes.
Nor let your sides too strong concussions shake,
Lest you the softness of the sex forsake.
In some, distortions quite the face disguise;
Another laughs, that you would think she cries.
In one, too hoarse a voice we hear betray'd,
Another's is as harsh as if she bray'd.