A woman 's no fieve (for with that you begin),
Because she lets out more than e'er she takes in.
And that the 's a riddle, can never be right,
For a riddle is dark, but a woman is light.
But, grant her a fieve, I can íay fomething archer:
Pray what is a man? he's a fine linen searcher.
Now tell me a thing that wants interpretation,
What name for a * maid, was the first man's damnation?
If your worship will please to explain me this rebus,
I fwear from henceforward you shall be my Phœbus.
From my hackney-coach, Sept. 11,
STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY, 1720.
LL travelers at first incline
Where-e'er they fee the fairest fign;
And, if they find the chambers near,
And like the liquor and the meat,
Will call again, and recommend
The Angel-inn to every friend.
What though the painting grows decay'd,
The house will never lofe its trade :
Nay, though the treacherous tapfter Thomas
Hangs a new Angel two doors from us,
As fine as daubers' hands can make it,
In hopes that strangers may mistake it,
We think it both a shame and fin
To quit the true old Angel-inn.
Now this is Stella's cafe in fact,
An angel's face a little crack'd
(Could poets or could painters fix
How angels look at thirty-fix):
This drew us in at first to find,
In fuch a form an angel's mind;
And every virtue now fupplies
The fainting rays of Stella's eyes.
See at her levee crouding swains,
Whom Stella freely entertains
With breeding, humour, wit, and fenfe
And puts them but to small expence;
Their mind fo plentifully fills,
And makes fuch reafonable bills,
So little gets for what the gives
We really wonder how the lives!
And, had her stock been lefs, no doubt
She must have long ago run out.
Then who can think we'll quit the place,
When Doll hangs out a newer face?
Or ftop and light at Cloe's head,
With fcraps and leavings to be fed ?
Then, Cloe, ftill go on to prate
Of thirty-fix, and thirty-eight;
Purfue 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 foul should grieve;
That, should you live to fee 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 fourscore.
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 fhew their trash at first) :
But his purfuits 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 flice 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 fend 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 goddeffes enroll'd
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 deprefs and raife,
Are lords of infamy and praise;
They are not fcurrilous in fatire,
Nor will in panegyrick flatter.
Unjustly poets we afperfe;
Truth shines the brighter clad in verfe,
And all the fictions they purfue,
Do but infinuate what is true.
Now, should my praifes owe their truth
To beauty, dress, or paint, or youth,
What Stoics call without our power,
They could not be infur'd an hour:
'Twere grafting on an annual ftock,
That must our expectation mock,
And, making one luxuriant shoot,
Die the next year for want of root :
Before I could my verses břing,
Perhaps you 're quite another thing..
So Mævius, when he drain'd his skull.
To celebrate fome fuburb trull,
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