STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY.

MARCH 13, 1718-19.

TELLA this day is thirty-four,
(We fha'n't difpute a year or more)
However, Stella, be not troubled,
Although thy fize and years are doubled,
Since first I saw thee at fixteen,
The brightest 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 fwain) To split my worship too in twain!

STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY, 1720.

LL travellers at firft incline

ALL

Where-e'er they fee the faireft fign:

And if they find the chambers neat,
And like the liquor and the meat,
Will call again, and recommend
The Angel-inn to every friend.
VOL. VII.

M

What

What though the painting grows decay'd,
The house will never lofe its trade:

Nay, though the treacherous tapfter Thomas,
Hangs a new Angel two doors from us,
As fine as daubers' hands can make it,
In hopes that strangers 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 every 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 sense;
And puts them but to fmall expence ;
Their mind fo plentifully fills,

And makes fuch reafonable 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

Purfue your trade of scandal-picking,
Your hints, that Stella is no chicken;
Your innuendos, 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 should you live to fee the day,
When Stella's locks must all be grey,
When age muft print a furrow'd trace
On every feature of her face;

Though you, and all your fenfeless 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 crowd to Stella's at fourscore.

Who collected and tranfcribed his POEMS. 1720.

AS, when a lofty pile is rais'd,

We never hear the workmen prais'd,
Who bring the lime, or place the stones,
But all admire Inigo Jones:
So, if this pile of fcatter'd rhymes
Should be approv'd in after-times;
If it both pleafes and endures,"
The merit and the praife are yours.
Thou, Stella, wert no longer young,
When first for thee my harp was ftrong,

M 2

Without

Without one word of Cupid's darts,
Of killing eyes, or bleeding hearts;
With Friendship and Efteem poffeft,
I ne'er admitted Love a guest.

In all the habitudes of life,

The friend, the mistress, and the wife,
Variety we ftill 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 worst,
As tradefmen fhew their trash at firft;
But his pursuits are at an end,
Whom Stella choofes for a friend.
A Poet ftarving in a garret,
Conning all topicks like a parrot,
Invokes his Mistress and his Mufe,
And stays at home for want of fhoes:
Should but his Mufe defcending drop
A flice of bread and mutton-chop;
Or kindly, when his credit's out,
Surprize him with a pint of ftout;
Or patch his broken stocking-foals, i
Or fend him in a peck of coals;
Exalted in his mighty mind,

He flies, and leaves the ftars behind;
Counts all his labours amply paid,
Adores her for the timely aid.

Or, fhould a porter make enquiries

For Chloe, Sylvia, Phyllis, Iris;
Be told the lodging, lane, and fign,
The bowers that hold thofe nymphs divine;

Fair Chloe would perhaps be found
With footmen tippling under ground;
The charming Sylvia beating flax,

Her fhoulders mark'd with bloody tracks;
Bright Phyllis mending ragged fmocks;
And radiant Iris in the pox.

These are the goddeffes enroll'd

In Curll's collection, new and old,

Whofe fcoundrel fathers would not know 'em,

If they should n.cet them in a poem.

True poets can deprefs and raise,
Are lords of infamy and praise;
They are not fcurrilous in fatire,
Nor will in panegyrick flatter.
Unjustly poets we afperfe;

Truth fhines the brighter clad in verse,
And all the fictions they purfue,

Do but infinuate what is true.

Now, fhould my praises owe their truth,
To beauty, dress, or paint, or youth,
What Stoics call without our power,
They could not be infur'd an hour:
'Twere grafting on an annual stock,
That muft our expectation mock,
And, making one luxuriant fhoot,
Die the next year for want of root:
Before I could my verfes bring,
Perhaps you're quite another thing.
So Mævius, when he drain'd his fkull
To celebrate fome fuburb trull,
His fimiles in order fet,

And every crambo he could get,