PLAIN TRUTH.

By HENRY FIELDING, Esq;

AS Bathian Venus t'other day
Invited all the Gods to tea,
Her maids of honour, the miss Graces,
Attending duely in their places,
Their godships gave a loose to mirth,
As we at Butt'ring's here on earth.

Minerva in her usual way
Rallied the daughter of the sea.
Madam, said she, your lov'd resort,
The city where you hold your court,
Is lately fallen from its duty,
And triumphs more in wit than beauty;
For here, she cried; see here a poem —
'Tis Dalston's; you, Apollo, know him.
Little persuasion sure invites
Pallas to read what Dalston writes:
Nay, I have heard that in Parnassus
For truth a current whisper passes,
That Dalston sometimes has been known
To publish her works as his own.

Minerva read, and every God
Approv'd — Jove gave the critic nod:
Apollo and the sacred Nine
Were charm'd, and smil'd at ev'ry line;
And Mars, who little understood,
Swore, d—n him, if it was not good.
Venus alone sat all the while
Silent, nor deign'd a single smile.
All were surpriz'd: some thought her stupid:
Not so her confident 'squire Cupid;
For well the little rogue discern'd
At what his mother was concern'd,
Yet not a word the urchin said,
But hid in Hebe's lap his head.
At length the rising choler broke
From Venus' lips, — and thus she spoke,

That poetry so cram'd with wit,
Minerva, shou'd your palate hit,
I wonder not, nor that some prudes
(For such there are above the clouds)
Shou'd wish the prize of beauty torn
From her they view with envious scorn.
Me poets never please, but when
Justice and truth direct their pen.
This Dalston — formerly I've known him;
Henceforth for ever I disown him;
For Homer's wit shall I despise
In him who writes with Homer's eyes.
A poem on the fairest fair
At Bath, and Betty's name not there!
Hath not this poet seen those glances
In which my wicked urchin dances?
Nor that dear dimple, where he treats
Himself with all Arabia's sweets;
In whose soft down while he reposes
In vain the lillies bloom, or roses,
To tempt him from a sweeter bed
Of fairer white or livelier red?
Hath he not seen, when some kind gale
Has blown aside the cambric veil,
That seat of paradise, where Jove
Might pamper his almighty love?
Our milky way less fair does shew:
There summer's seen 'twixt hills of snow.
From her lov'd voice whene'er she speaks,
What softness in each accent breaks!
And when her dimpled smiles arise,
What sweetness sparkles in her eyes!
Can I then bear, enrag'd she said,
Slights offer'd to my fav'rite maid,
The nymph whom I decreed to be
The representative of me?

The Goddess ceas'd — the Gods all bow'd,
Nor one the wicked bard avow'd,
Who, while in beauty's praise he writ,
Dar'd Beauty's Goddess to omit:
For now their godships recollected,
'Twas Venus' self he had neglected,
Who in her visits to this place
Had still worn Betty Dalston's face.