Venus one day, as story goes, But for what reason no man knows, In sullen mood and grave deport, Trudged it away to Jove's high court;
And there his Godship did entreat To look out for his best receipt: And make a monster strange and odd, Abhorr'd by man and every god.
Jove, ever kind to all the fair, Nor e'er refused a lady's prayer, Straight oped‘ scrutoire, and forth he took A neatly bound and well-gilt book;
Sure sign that nothing enter'd there, But what was very choice and rare. Scarce had he turn'd a page or two,— It might be more, for aught I knew;
But, be the matter more or less, ‘ Mong friends‘ twill break no squares, I guess. Then, smiling, to the dame quoth he, Here's one will fit you to a T.
But, as the writing doth prescribe, ‘ Tis fit the ingredients we provide. Away he went, and search'd the stews, And every street about the Mews;
Diseases, impudence, and lies, Are found and brought him in a trice. From Hackney then he did provide, A clumsy air and awkward pride;
From lady's toilet next he brought Noise, scandal, and malicious thought. These Jove put in an old close-stool, And with them mix'd the vain, the fool.
But now came on his greatest care, Of what he should his paste prepare; For common clay or finer mould Was much too good, such stuff to hold.
At last he wisely thought on mud; So raised it up, and call'd it — Cludd. With this, the lady well content, Low curtsey'd, and away she went.
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