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That shews the frightful ruins of your face;
But if good humour to the last remain,
E'en age may please, and love his force retain.
Now on, my muse, and tell 'em, when they rise,
When downy sleep forsakes their tender eyes,
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How they may look as fair as morning skies.
Vetches, and beaten barley, let 'em take,
And with the whites of eggs a mixture make;
Then dry the precious paste with sun and wind
And into powder very gently grind.
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Get hart's-horn next (but let it be the first
That creature sheds), and beat it well to dust.
Six pound in all; then mix and sift 'em well,
And think the while how fond Narcissus fell;
Six roots to you that pensive flower must yield
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To mingle with the rest, well bruis'd and cleanly pill'd.
Two ounces next of gum, and thural seed,
That for the gracious gods does incense breed,
And let a double share of honey last succeed.
With this whatever damsel paints her face,
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