STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY. 1718.
TELLA this day is thirty-four,
(We fha'nt difpute a year or more :) However, Stella, be not troubled;
Although thy fize and years are doubled,
Since firft I faw thee at fixteen,
The brighteft virgin on the green,
So little is thy form declin'd;
Made up fo largely in thy mind.
Oh, would it please the gods to split
Thy beauty, fize, and years, and wit!
No age could furnish out a pair
Of nymphs fo graceful, wife, and fair;
With half the luftre of your eyes,
With half your wit, your years and fize.
And then, before it grew too late,
How should I beg of gentle fate,
(That either nymph might have her swain,) To split my Worship too in twain.
STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY. 1720.
LL travellers at firft incline
Where-e'er they fee the faireft fign;
And, if they find the chambers neat,
Nay, though the treach'rous tapfter Thomast
Hangs a new angel two doors from us,
As fine as dauber's hands can make it,
In hopes that ftrangers may mistake it,
We think it both a fhame 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 firft to find
In fuch a form an angel's mind;
And ev'ry virtue now fupplies
The fainting rays of Stella's eyes.
See at her levee crouding fwains,
Whom Stella freely entertains
With breeding, humour, wit, and fenfe;
And puts them but to fmall expence ;
Their mind fo plentifully fills,
And makes fuch reasonable bills,
So little gets for what she gives,
We really wonder how the lives!
And, had her ftock 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 inuendos, 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, fhould you live to fee the day
When Stella's locks must all be gray,
When age must print a furrow'd trace
On ev'ry feature of her face;
Though you, and all your fenfelefs 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 fense will pafs your door,
And croud to Stella's at fourfcore.
A great bottle of wine, long buried, being that day dug up. 1722.
RESOLV'D my annual verfe 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 my head,
But found my wit and fancy fled:
Or if, with more than ufual pain,
A thought came flowly from my brain,
It coft me Lord knows how much time
To fhape it into sense and rhyme;
M 3
And, what was yet a greater curfe,
Long thinking made my fancy worse.
Forfaken by the infpiring Nine,
I waited at Apollo's fhrine:
I told him what the world would fay,
If Stella were unfung to day;
How I should hide 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 fwear it would not always follow,
That femel'n anno ridet Apollo.
I have affur'd them twenty times,
That Phoebus help'd me in my rhymes;
Phoebus infpir'd me from above,
And he and I were hand and glove.
But, finding me fo dull and dry fince,
They'll call it all poetic licence;
And, when I brag of aid divine,
I furnish hints, and you fhould ufe all 'em,
You yearly fing as the grows old,
You'd leave her virtues half untold.
But, to say truth, fuch dulness reigns
Through the whole fet of Irish deans,
I'm daily stunn'd with fuch 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 fhe, as prieftefs, 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 defcribe a circle round
In Saunder's cellar on the ground:
A fpade let prudent Archy † hold,
And with difcretion dig the mould:
Let Stella look with watchful eye,
Rebecca ‡, Ford, and Grattans || by.
Behold the bottle, where it lies
With neck elated tow'rds the skies!
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 fpacious womb contains
A fov'reign med'cine for the brains.
You'll find it foon, if fate confents;
If not, a thoufand Mrs. Brents,
* The Housekeeper.
†The footman.
Friends of the author.
|