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Ten thousand Archys arm'd with spades,
May dig in vain to Pluto's fhades.

From thence a plenteous draught infuse,
And boldly then invoke the mufe;
(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.

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S when a beauteous nymph decays,
We fay, fhe'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 houfekeeper, and get her
To fill a place for want of better:
While Sheridan is off the hooks,
And friend Delany at his books,
That Stella may avoid difgrace,

Once more the Dean 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 sweetly fung,

Unless he were, like Phoebus, young ;

$ The valet.

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Nor

Nor ever nymph infpir'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 fubject 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 profe:
Esteem and friendship to express,
Will not require poetic dress;
And if the mufe deny her aid

To have them fung, they may be faid.
But, Stella, fay, what evil tongue
Reports you are no longer young;
That Time fits with his fithe to mow
Where erft fat Cupid with his bow;
That half your locks are turn'd to gray

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?

I'll ne'er believe a word they fay.

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'Tis true, but let it not be known,

My eyes are fomewhat dimmifh grown :

For nature, always in the right,

To your decays adapts my fight;

And wrinkles undistinguish'd pass,

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For I'm afham'd to use a glass;
And till I fee them with thefe eyes,
Whoever fays you have them, lies.

No length of time can make you quit

Honour and virtue, fenfe and wit:
Thus you may ftill be young to me,
While I can better hear than fee.

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Oh,

Oh, ne'er may Fortune fhew her fpight,
To make me deaf and mend my fight!

STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY. March 13, 1726.

TH

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 pleasing thought,
Which can, in spite of all decays,
Support a few remaining days,
From not the gravest of divines
Accept for once fome serious lines.

Although 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,
(The only comfort they propofe,
To have companions in their woes :)
Grant this the cafe; yet fure 'tis hard
That virtue, ftyl'd its own reward,

And by all fages understood
To be the chief of human good,

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Should acting die, nor leave behind
Some lafting pleasure in the mind,

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Which by remembrance will affuage
Grief, fickness, poverty, and age,
And ftrongly fhoot a radiant dart
To fhine through life's declining part.
Say, Stella, feel you no content,
Reflecting on a life well spent?
Your skilful hand employ'd to save
Defpairing wretches from the grave;
And then supporting with your store

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Those whom you dragg'd from death before:
So Providence on mortals waits,

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Must these like empty fhadows pass,
Or forms reflected from a glafs?

Or mere chimeras in the mind,

That fly, and leave no marks behind!
Does not the body thrive and grow
By food of twenty years ago?
And had it not been ftill fupply'd,
It must a thousand times have dy'd.
Then who with reafon can maintain,
That no effects of food remain ?

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бо

And

And is not virtue in mankind

The nutriment that feeds the mind;
Upheld by each good action paft,
And ftill continued by the laft?
Then, who with reason can pretend
That all effects of virtue end?

fhow

Believe me, Stella, when you
That true contempt for things below,

Nor prize your life for other ends
Than merely to oblige your friends,
Your former actions claim their part,

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And join to fortify your heart.

For virtue in her daily race,

Like Janus, bears a double face;

Looks back with joy where fhe has gone,

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And guide you to a better state.

And therefore goes with courage on.
She at your fickly couch will wait,

O then, whatever Heav'n intends,

Take pity on your pitying friends!
Nor let your ills affect your mind,
To fancy they can be unkind.

Me, furely me, you ought to fpare,
Who gladly would your fuff'rings fhare;
Or give my scrap of life to you,
And think it far beneath your due;
You, to whofe care so oft I owe
That I'm alive to tell you fo.

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