When skilful traders first set up,
To draw the people to their shop,
They straight hang out some gaudy sign,
Expressive of the goods within.
The vintner has his boy and grapes,
The haberdasher thread and tapes,
The shoemaker exposes boots,
And Monmouth Street old tattered fruits.
So fares it with the nymph divine;
For what is beauty but a sign? [10]
A face hung out, through which is seen
The nature of the goods within.
Thus the coquet her beau ensnares
With studied smiles, and forward airs;
The graver prude hangs out a frown
To strike th’audacious gazer down;
But she alone, whose temp’rate wit
Each nicer medium can hit,
Is still adorned with ev’ry grace,
And wears a sample in her face. [20]
What though some envious folks have said,
That Stella now must hide her head,
That all her stock of beauty’s gone,
And ev’n the very sign took down:
Yet grieve not at the fatal blow;
For if you break a while, we know,
’Tis bankrupt like, more rich to grow.
A fairer sign you’ll soon hang up,
And with fresh credit open shop:
For nature’s pencil soon shall trace, [30]
And once more finish off your face,
Which all your neighbours shall out-shine,
And of your mind remain the sign.