« ПредишнаНапред »
every ftroke of mine, he fell, 'Tis true he roar'd and cry'd; But his impenetrable shell
Could feel no harm befide.
The tortoife thus, with motion flow,
Will clamber up a wall;
"Yet, fenfelefs to the hardest blow, Gets nothing but a fall.
Dear Dan, then, why should you, or I,
Attack his pericrany?
And, fince it is in vain to try,
We'll fend him to Delany.
Lean Tom, when I faw him, laft week, on his horfe awry,
Threaten'd loudly to turn me to stone with his forcery. But, I think, little Dan, that, in fpight of what our foe fays,
He will find I read Ovid and his Metamorphofis.
For omitting the first (where I make a comparison,
With a fort of allufion to Putland * or Harrison)
Yet, by my description, you'll find he in short is
A pack and a garran, a top and a 'tortoise.
So I hope from henceforward you ne'er will afk, can I maul
This teazing, conceited, rude, infolent animal?
And, if this rebuke might turn to his benefit,
(For I pity the man) I should be glad then of it.
Alluding to the Prologue, mentioned above, p. 227.
On his "ART OF PUNNING."
HAD I ten thousand mouths and tongues,
Had I ten thousand pair of lungs,
Ten thoufand Sculls with brains to think,
Ten thousand fandishes of ink,
Ten thousand hands and pens to write
Thy praife I'd ftudy day and night.
Oh may thy Work for ever live!
(Dear Tom, a friendly zeal forgive,)
May no vile mifcreant fawcy Cook
Prefume to tear thy learned Book,
To finge his Fowl for nicer guest,
Or pin it on the Turkey's breaft.
Keep it from pasty bak'd or flying,
From broiling fake, or fritters frying,
From lighting pipe, or making snuff,
Or cafing up a feather muff,
From all the feveral ways the Grocer
(Who to the learned world's a foe, Sir,)
Has found in twisting, folding, packing,
His brains and ours at once a racking.
And may it never curl the head,
Of either living block or dead!
Thus, when all dangers they have past,
Your leaves, like leaves of brass, fhall laft.
No blast fall from a Critick's breath,
By vile injection, cause their death,
Till they in frames at laft expire,
And help to fet the world on fire.
STELLA TO DR. SWIFT. On his Birth-day, Nov. 30, 1721.
ST. Patrick's Dean, your country's pride,
My early and my only guide,
Let me among the reft attend,
Your pupil and your humble friend,
To celebrate in female ftrains
The day that paid your mother's pains ;
Defcend to take that tribute due
In gratitude alone to you.
When men began to call me fair,
You interpos'd your timely care;
You early taught me to defpife
The ogling of a coxcomb's eyes;
Shew'd where my judgement was mifplac'd;
Refin'd my fancy and my tafte.
Behold that beauty, juft decay'd,
Invoking art to nature's aid:
Forfook by her admiring train,
She spreads her tatter'd nets in vain ;
Short was her part upon the ftage;
Went fmoothly on for half a page;
Her bloom was gone, fhe wanted art,
As the ftene chang'd, to change her part:
She, whom no lover could resist,
Before the fecond act was hifs'd.
Such is the fate of female race
With no endowments but a face;
Before the thirtieth year of life,
A maid forlorn, or hated wife.
Stella to you, her tutor, owes
That she has ne'er refembled thofe ;
Nor was a burden to mankind
With half her courfe of years behind.
You taught how I might youth prolong,
By knowing what was right and wrong;
How from my heart to bring fupplies
Of luftre to my fading eyes;
How foon a beauteous mind repairs
The lofs of chang'd or falling hairs;
How wit and virtue from within
Send out a fmoothness o'er the fkin:
Your lectures could my fancy fix,
And I can please at thirty-fix.
The fight of Cloe at fifteen
Coquetting, gives not me the spleen ;
The idol now of every fool
Till time fhall make their paffions cool;
Then tumbling down time's steepy hill,
While Stella holds her ftation ftill.
Oh! turn your precepts into laws,
Redeem the women's ruin'd cause,
Retrieve loft empire to our fex,
That men may bow their rebel necks.
Long be the day that gave you birth
Sacred to friendship, wit, and mirth;
Late dying may you caft a fhred
Of your rich mantle o'er my head;
To bear with dignity my forrow,
One day alone, then die to-morrow.
ON HER BIRTH-DAY, 1721-82.
HILE, Stella, to your lafting praise
The Muse her annual tribute pays,.
While I affign myself a task
Which you expect, but scorn to ask ;
If I perform this task with pain,.
Let me of partial fate complain;
You every year the debt enlarge,
lefs equal to the charge :
In you each virtue brighter fhines,.
But my poetic vein declines;
My harp will foon in vain be ftrung,
And all your virtues left unfung:
For none among the upstart race
Of Poets dare affume my place ;
Your worth will be to them unknown,
They must have Stella's of their own;
And thus, my stock of wit decay'd,.
I dying leave the debt unpaid,
Unless Delany, as my heir,
Will anfwer for the whole arrear.
ON THE GREAT BURIED BOTTLE
BY DR. DELANY.
MPHORA, quæ moeftum linquis,lætumque revifes
Arentem dominum, fit tibi terra levis.
Tu quoque depofitum ferves, neve opprime, marmor;
Amphora non meruit tam pretiofa mori.