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And then, before it grew too late,
How Tould I beg of gentle fate,
(That either nymph might have her swain),
To split my Worship too in twain.
STELLA's BIRTH-DAY, 1720.
ALL travellers at first incline
Where-e'er they see the fairest sign;
And, if they find the chambers neat,
And like the liquor and the meat,
Will call again, and recommend
The Angel inn to ev'ry friend,
What tho' the painting grows decay'd ?
The house will never lose its trade :
Nay, tho' the treach'rous tapster Thomas
Hangs a new angel two doors from us,
As fine as dawber's 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 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 ev'ry 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 sense;
And puts them but to small expence ;
Their mind fo 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 must have long ago run out.
Then who can think we'll quit the place,
When Doll hangs out a newer face ;
Or top and light at Cloe's head,
With scraps and leavings to be fed ?
Then, Cloe, still go on to prate
Of thirty-fix, and thirty-eight;
Pursue your trade of scandal-picking,
Your hints, that Stella is no chicken ;,
Your innuendos, when you
That Stella loves to talk with fellows:
And let me warn you to believe
A truth, for which your soul thould grieve;
That, should you live to see the day
When Stella's locks must all be gray,
age muft print a furrow'd trace
On ey’ry feature of her face ;
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
mind ; All men of sense will pass your door, And croud to Stella's at fourscore.
A great bottle of wine, long buried, being
that day dug up. 1722.
RESOLVD my annual verre to pay,
By duty bound, on Stella's day,
Furnish'd with paper, pens, and ink,
I gravely fat me down to think: /
I bit my nails, and scratch'd
But found my wit and fancy fled :
Or, if with more than usual pain,
A thought came flowly from my brain,
It cost me Lord knows how much time
To shape it into sense and rhyme:
And, what was yet a greater curse,
Long thinking made my fancy worse.
FORSAKEN by th' inspiring Nine,
I waited at Apollo's shrine :
I told him what the world would say,
If Stella were unsung to day ;
-How I should bide my head for shame,
When both the Jacks and Robin came;
How Ford would frown, how Jim would leer,
How Sh-n the rogue would fneer,
And swear it does not always follow,
That femel'n anno ridet Apollo.
I have affur’d them twenty times,
That Phoebus help'd me in my rhymes ;
Phæbus inspir’d me from above,
And he and I were hand and glove.
But, finding me fo dull and dry since,
They'll call it all poetic licence ;
And, when I brag of aid divine,
Think Eusden's right as good as mine.
Nor do I ask for Stella's fake;
"Tis my own credit lies at stake :
And Stella will be sung, while I
Can only be a stander-by.
APOLLO, having thought a little,
Return'd this answer to a tittle.
should live like old Methusalem, I furnish hints, and you should use all 'em, VOL. VI.
You yearly fing as the grows old,
You'd leave her virtues half untold,
But, to say truth, such dulness reigns,
Thro’ the whole set of Irish deans,
I'm daily stunn'd with such a medley,
Dean W, Dean D, and Dean Smedley,
That, let what Dean foever come,
My orders are, I'm not at home ;
And, if your voice had not been loud,
You must have pass'd among the croud.
But now, your danger to prevent,
You must apply to Mrs Brent* ;
For she, as priestess, knows the rites
Wherein the god of earth delights.
First, nine ways looking, let her stand
With an old poker in her hand;
Let her describe a circle round
In Saunder's + cellar on the ground:
A spade let prudent Archy I hold,
And with discretion dig the mould:
Let Stella look with watchful eye,
Rebecca |l, Ford, and Grattons ** by.
Behold the bottle, where it lies
With neck elated tow'rds the kies!
The god of winds and god of fire
Did to its wondrous birth conspire;
And Bacchus for the poet's use
Pour'd in a strong inspiring juice.
See ! as you raise it from its tomb,
It drags behind a spacious womb,
And in the spacious womb contains
A fov'reign med'cine for the brains.
* The housekeeper. + The butler.
# The footman. H A lady, friend to Stella.
** Friends of the author.
You'll find it foon, if fate consents;
If not, a thousand Mrs Brents,
Ten thousand Archys arm'd with spades,
May dig in vain to Pluto's shades.
From thence a plenteous draught infuse,
And boldly then invoke the muse;
(But 'firft let Robert *, on his knees,
With caution drain it from the lees) ;
The muse will at your call appear,
With Stella's praise to crown the year.
STELLA's BIRTH-DAY, 1724.
S when a beauteous nymph decays,
We say, she's paft her dancing-days;
So poets lose their feet by time,
And can no longer dance in rhyme.
Your annual bard had rather chose
To celebrate your birth in prose :
Yet merry folks, who want by chance
A pair to make a country-dance,
Call the old housekeeper, and get her
To fill a place for waat of better :
While Sheridan is off the hooks,
And friend Delany at his books,
That Stella may avoid disgrace,
Once more the Dean supplies their place.
Beauty and wit, too fad a truth !
Have always been confin'd to youth;
The god of wit and beauty's queen,
He twenty-one, and the fifteen.
No poet ever sweetly sung,
Unless he were, like Phoebus, young;