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 fhe grows old,
You'd leave her Virtues half untold.
But to fay Truth, fuch Dulness reigns
Thro' the whole Set of 1-rish D—ns ;
I'm daily ftunn'd with such a Medley,
D-n W-, D-n D-1, and D-n S--;
That let what D-n 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 Crowd.
BUT, now, your Danger to prevent,
You must apply to Mrs. Brent,
For fhe, 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 defcripe 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 Houfe-keeper. The Butler.
BEHOLD the BOTTLE, where it lies
With Neck elated tow'rds the Skies!
The God of Winds, and God of Fire,
Did to its wond'rous Birth confpire;
And Bacchus for the Poet's Ufe
Four'd in a strong inspiring Juice:
See! as you raife it from its Tomb,
It drags behind a fpacious Womb,
And in the fpacious Womb contains
A fov'reign Med'cine for the Brains.
YOU'LL find it foon, if Fate confents;
If not, a thousand Mrs. Brents,
Ten thoufand Archy's arm'd with Spades,
May dig in vain to Pluto's Shades.
FROM thence a plenteous Draught infufe,
And boldly then invoke the Muse;
(But first let Robert on his Knees
With Caution drain it from the Lees)
The Mufe will at your Call appear,
With Stella's Praise to crown the Year.
STELLA's Birth-Day. 1724.
S when a beauteous Nymph decays,
A We lay the's paft her Dancing Days;
So Poets lofe their Feet by Time,
And can no longer dance in Rhyme.
Your annual Bard had rather chofe
To celebrate your Birth in Profe;
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,
-y at his Books,
That Stella may avoid Difgrace,
Once more the D-n fupplies 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 fhe Fifteen ;
No Poet ever fweetly fung,
Unless he were like Phabus, young;
Nor ever Nymph infpir'd to Rhyme,
Unless like Venus in her Prime.
At Fifty-fix, if this be true,
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 wife.
Our Fate in vain we would oppose,
But I'll be ftill your Friend in Prose;
Efteem and Friendship to express,
Will not require Poetick Dress;
And if the Mufe deny her Aid
To have them sung, they may be said..
BUT, Stella fay, what evil Tongue
Reports you are no longer young?
That Time fits with his Scythe to mow
Where'erft fate Cupid with his Bow;
That half your Locks are turn'd to Grey ;
I'll ne'er believe a Word they fay.
'Tis true, but let it not be known,
My Eyes are fomewhat dimifh grown ;
For Nature, always in the Right,
To your Decays adapts my Sight, .
And Wrinkles undistinguish'd pass,
For I'm afham'd to use a Glafs;
And till I fee them with these Eyes.
Whoever fays 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, 1726.
HIS Day, whate'er the Fates decree,
Shall ftill 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 fuch mortifying Stuff.
Yet, fince from Reason may be brought
A better and more pleafing Thought,
Which can, in fpite of all Decays,
Support a few remaining Days:
From not the graveft of Divines,
Accept for once fome ferious 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,
|