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Variety we still pursue,

In pleasure seek for fomething new;
Or elfe, comparing with the reft,
Take comfort, that our own is beft;
The best we value by the worft,
(As tradesmen fhew their trash at first) :
But his purfuits are at an end,
Whom Stella chufes for a friend.
A poet ftarving in a garret,
Conning old topics like a parrot,
Invokes his miftrefs and his mufe,
And stays at home for want of shoes:
Should but his mufe, defcending, drop
A flice of bread, and mutton-chop;
Orkindly, when his credit's out,
Surprise him with a pint of flout*;
Or patch his broken ftocking-foals,
Or fend him in a peek of coals;
Exalted in his mighty mind,

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He flies, and leaves the ftars behind;
Counts all his labours amply paid,

Adores her for the timely aid.

OR, fhould a porter make inquiries

For Chloe, Sylvia, Phillis, Iris,

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Be told the lodging, lane, and fign,

The bow'rs that hold those nymphs divine ;

Fair Chloe would perhaps be found

With footmen tippling under ground;

The charming Sylvia beating flax,

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Her fhoulders mark'd with bloody tracks ;

Bright Phillis mending ragged fmocks;

And radiant Iris in the pox.:.

THESE are the goddesses inroll'd

In Curl's collection †, new and old,.

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Whofe fcoundrel fathers would not know 'em,
If they fhould meet them in a poem.

TRUE poets can depress and raise,
Are lords of infamy and praise;

They are not fcurrilous in fatire,
Nor will in panegyric flatter.

Unjustly poets we afperfe;

Truth shines the brighter clad in verse ;
And all the fictions they pursue,

Do but infinuate what is true.

Now, fhould my praifes owe their trath
To beauty, drefs, or paint, or youth,
What Stoics call without our pow'r,
They could not be infur'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 fcull
To celebrate some suburb-trull,

His fimiles in order fet,

And ev'ry crambo he could get ;

Had

gone thro' all the common places

Worn out by wits. who rhyme on faces:
Before he could his poem close,

The lovely nymph had loft her nofe.

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YOUR virtues fafely I commend ;

They on no accidents depend:

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Let malice look with all her eyes,

She dares not say the poet lies.

STELLA, when you thefe lines transcribe,
Left
you should take them for a bribe,

Refolv'd to mortify your pride,.
I'll here expofe your weaker fide...

YOUR fpirits kindle to a flame,

Mov'd with the lighteft touch of blame;
And when a friend in kindness tries

To shew you where your error lies,

Conviction does but more incense;

да

Perverseness is your whole defence;

Truth, judgment, wit, give place to fpight,
Regardless both of wrong and right;
Your virtues all suspended wait

Till time hath open'd reason's gate;
And, what is worfe, your paffion 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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And yet a fault we often find

Mix'd in a noble gen'rous mind;

And may compare to Ætna's fire,

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Which, tho' with trembling, all admire;
The heat that makes the fummit glow,
Enriching all the vales below.

Those who in warmer climes complain
From Phoebus rays they fuffer pain,
Must own, that pain is largely paid
By gen'rous wines beneath a shade.

YET, when I find your paffions rife,
And anger fparkling in your eyes,
I grieve thofe fpirits fhould be spent,
For nobler ends by nature meant.
One paffion with a diff`rent turn
Makes wit inflame, or anger burn.
So the fun's heat with diff'rent pow'rs
Ripens the grape, the liquor fours.
Thus Ajax. when with rage poffeft
By Pallas breath'd into his breast,

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His valour would no more employ,

Which might alone have conquer'd Troy ;

But, blinded by refentment, feeks

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For vengeance on his friends, the Greeks.

You think this turbulence of blood
From ftagnacing preferves the flood,
Which, thus fermenting, by degrees
Exalts the fpirits, finks the lees.

STELLA, for once you reafon wrong;
For, fhould this ferment laft too long,
By time fubfiding, you may find
Nothing but acid left behind :

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From paffion you may then be freed,
When peevishnefs and fpleen fucceed.

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SAY, Stella, when you copy next, Will you keep ftrictly to the text? Dare you let these reproaches stand,

And to your failing fet your hand?

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Or, if thefe lines your anger fire,

Shall they in bafer flames expire ?

Whene'er they burn, if burn they muft,

They'll prove my accufation juft.

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,

This poem fhews the delicacy of Stella's tafte. It is the only remaining performance of that improved and lovely woman that I know of in the poetic train. It was given by Dr Swift to a lady of his acquaintance, who had a great efleem for the virtues and accomplishments of the amiable Stella, altho' fhe never had the leaft intimacy with her. The Doctor affired this lady that it was a piece entirely genuine from the hands of Stella, without any fort of correction whatfoever. Swift-See Bons mets de Stella, in vol. iv.; and her character in Dr Swift's life, prefixed to vol. i.

Let me among the reft attend,

Your pupil and your humble friend,

To celebrate in female flrains

The day that paid your mother's pains;
Defcend to take that tribute due

In gratitude alone to you.

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The ogling of a coxcomb's eyes;

Shew'd where my judgment was misplac'd;
Refin'd my fancy and my tafte.

BEHOLD that beauty juft decay'd,

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Invoking art to nature's aid;

For fook by her admiring train,

She spreads her tatter'd nets in vain ;
Short was her part upon the stage;
Went fmoothly on for half a page;
Her bloom was gone, fhe wanted art,
As the scene chang'd, to change her part:
She, whom no lover could refift,
Before the fecond act was hifs'd.
Such is the fate of female race
With no endowments but a face;
Before the thirti'th year of life
A maid forlorn, or hated wife.

STELLA to you, her tutor, owes

That she has ne'er refembled those;
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;

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