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We think it both a shame and fin
To quit the true old Angel-inn.

Now this is Stella's case in fact,
An angel's face a little crack'd
(Could poets or could painters fix
How angels look at thirty-six):
This drew us in at first to find
In such a form an angel's mind;
And every virtue now supplies
The fainting rays of Stella's eyes.
See at her levee crouding swains,
Whom Stella freely entertains
With breeding, humour, wit, and sense;.
And puts them but to small expence;
Their mind so plentifully fills,
And makes such reasonable bills,
So little gets for what she gives
We really wonder how she lives!
And, had her stock been less, no doubt
She muft have long ago run out.

Then who can think we 'll quit the place,
When Doll hangs out a newer face?
Or stop and light at Cloe's head,
With scraps and leavings to be fed.?

Then, Cloe, still go on to prate
Of thirty-lix, and thirty-eight ;
Pursue your trade of scandal-picking,
Your hints, that Stella is no chicken ;
Your innuendos, when you tell us,
That Stella loves to talk with fellows :


And let me warn you to believe
A truth, for which your soul should grieve;
That, should you live to see the day
When Stella's locks must all be grey,
When age must print a furrow'd trace
On every feature of her face;
Though you, and all your senseless tribe,
Could art, or time, or nature bribe,
To make you look like Beauty's Queen,
And hold for ever at fifteen ;
No bloom of youth can ever blind
The cracks and wrinkles of your

mind : All men of sense will pass your door, And croud to Stella's at fourfcore.

Who collected and transcribed his Poems, 1720.
AS, when a lofty pile is rais’d,

We never hear the workmen prais’d,
Who bring the lime, or place the stones :
But all admire Inigo Jones :
So, if this pile of scatter'd rhymes
Should be approv'd in after-times;
If it both pleases and endures,
The merit and the praise are yours.

Thou, Stella, wert no longer young,
When first for thee my harp was strung,
Without one word of Cupid's darts,
Of killing eyes, or bleeding hearts :

With Friendship and Esteem poffeft,
I ne'er admitted Love a guest.

In all the habitudes of life,
The friend, the mistress, and the wife,
Variety we still pursue,
In pleasure seek for something new;
Or else, comparing with the rest,
Take comfort, that our own is best ;
The best we value by the worst
(As tradesmen shew their trash at first):
But his pursuits were at an end,
Whom Stella chuses for a friend.

A Poet starving in a garret,
Conning all topicks like a parrot,
Invokes his Mistress and his Muse,
And stays at home for want of shoes :
Should but his Muse descending drop
A Nice of bread and mutton-chop;
Or kindly, when his credit's out,
Surprize him with a pint of stout;
Or patch his broken stocking-foals,
Or send him in a peck of coals;
Exalted in his mighty mind,
He flies, and leaves the stars behind :
Counts all his labours amply paid,
Adores her for the timely aid.

Or, should a porter make enquiries
For Chloe, Sylvia, Phyllis, Iris;
Be told the lodging, lane, and fign,
The bowers that hold those nymphs divine;
Fair Chloe would perhaps be found
With footmen tippling under ground;
The charming Sylvia beating flax,
Her shoulders mark'd with bloody tracks;
Bright Phyllis mending ragged smocks;
And radiant Iris in the pox.
These are the goddesses enrolld
In Curll's collection, new and old,
Whose scoundrel fathers would not know 'em,,
If they should meet them in a poem.

True poets can depress and raise,
Are lords of infamy and praise ;
They are not scurrilous in satire,
Nor will in panegyrick flatter.
Unjustly poets we asperse;
Truth shines the brighter clad in verfe,
And all the fi&tions they pursue,
Do but infinuate what is true.

Now, should my praises owe their truth
To beauty, dress, or paint, or youth,
What Stoics call without our power,
They could not be insur'd an hour :
'Twere grafting on an annual stock,
That must our expectation mock,
And, making one luxuriant shoot,
Die the next year for want of root :
Before I could my verses bring,
Perhaps you ’re quite another thing.

So Mævius, when he drain'd his skull
To celebrate some suburb trull,

His 4

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His fimilies in order fet,
And every crambo he could get,
Had gone through all the common-places
Worn out by wits, who rhyme on faces :
Before he could his poem close,
The lovely nymph had lost her nose.

Your virtues safely I commend';
They on no accidents depend:
Let malice look with all her

She dares not say the poet lyes.

Stella, when you these lines transcribe,

should take them for a bribe,
Resolv’d to mortify your pride,
I'll here expose your

weaker side.
Your spirits kindle to a flame,
Mov'd with the lightest touch of blame;
And, when a friend in kindness tries
To shew you where your error lies,
Conviction does but more incense;
Perverseness is your whole defence ;
Truth, judgement, wit, give place to spight,
Regardless both of wrong and right;
Your virtues all suspended wait
Till time hath open'd reason's gate;
And, what is worse, your passion bends
Its force against your nearest friends,
Which manners, decency, and pride,
Have taught you from the world to hide :
In vain; for fee, your friend hath brought
"To public light your only fault;


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