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APOLLO having thought a little,
Return'd this Answer to a Tittle.
Tho' you should live like old Metbufalem,
I furnish Hints, and you should use all 'em,
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 D--ns;
I'm daily stunn'd with such a Medley,
D-W-, D-nD-l, and Dcons ;
That let what D-n foever come,
My Orders are, I'm not at Home;
your Voice had not been loud, You must have pass’d among the Crowd.
But, now, your Danger to prevent,
You must apply to
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 hold,
And with Discretion dig the Mould ;
Let Stella look with watchful Eye,
Rebecca, Ford, and Grattons by.
* The House-keeper. + The Butler. Il The Footman. K 3
Behold the BOTTLE, where it lies
With Neck elaied tow'rds the Skies!
The God of Winds, and God of Fire,
Did to its wond'rous 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 sov'reign Medcine for the Brains.
You'll find it soon, if Fate consents;
If not, a thousand Mrs. Brents,
Ten thousand Archy's 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 firit let Robert on his knees
With Caution drain it from the Lecs)
The Muse will at
appear, With Stella's Praise to crown the Year.
STELLA's Birth-Day. 1724.
S when a beauteous Nymph decays,
A we way they paft her Da:cing Dayos
So Poets lose their Feet by Time,
And can no longer dance in Rhyme.
Your annual Bard had rather chose
Birth in Prose;
Yet merry Folks who want by Chance
A Pair to make a Country Dance,
Call the old House-keeper, and get her
To fill a Place, for want of better ;
While s -n is off the Hooks,
And Friend D-Sy at his Books,
That Stella may avoid Disgrace,
Once more the D-n supplies their Place.
BEAUTY and Wit, too sad 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 Phæbus, young;
Nor ever Nymph inspir'd to Rhyme,
Unless like Venus in her Prime.
At Fifty-fix, if this be true,
Am I a Poet fit for you ;
Or at the Age of Forty-three,
Are you a Subject fit for me?
Adieu bright Wit, and radiant Eyes;
You must be grave, and I be wise.
Our Fate in vain we would oppose,
But I'll be still your friend in Prose ;
Efteem and Friendship to express,
Will not require Poetick Dress ;
And if the Muse deny her Aid
To have them Jung, they may be said.
But, Stella say, what evil Tongue
Reports you are no longer young ?
That Time sits with his Scythe to mow
Where'erst sate Cupid with his Bow;
That half your Locks are turn'd to Grey :
I'll ne'er believe a Word they say.
'Tis true, but let it not be known,
My Eyes are somewhat dimish grown ;
For Nature, always in the Right,
To your Decays adapts my Sight, .
And Wrinkles undistinguish'd pass,
For I'm alham'd to use a Glass ;
And till I see them with these Eyes.
Whoever says you have them, lies.
No length of Time can make you quit
Honour and Virtue, Sense and Wit,
Thus you may still be young to me,
While I can better hear than see :
Oh, ne'er may Fortune fhew her Spight,
To make me deaf, and mend my sight.
STELLA's Birth-Day, March 13,
HIS Day, whate'er the Fates decree,
Shall still be kept with Joy by me;
This Day then, let us not be told
That you are fick, and I grown old,
Nor think on our approaching Ills,
And talk of Spectacles and Pills ;
To-morrow will be Time enough
To hear such mortifying Stuff.
Yet, since from Realon may be brought
A better and more pleasing Thought,
Which can, in spite of all Decays,
Support a few remaining Days:
From not the gravest of Divines,
Accept for once some serious Lines.
Altho' we now can form no more
Long Schemes of Life, as heretofore;
Yet you, while Time is running fast,
Can look with Joy on what is past.
Were future Happiness and Pain A mere Contrivance of the Brain, As Atheists
argue, to entice, And fit their Profelytes for Vice,