And find the rhyme, and you're the man.
ANSWERED BY DR, SHERIDAN.
YOUR house of hair and lady's hand
At first did put me to a stand.
I have it now-'tis plain enough—
Your hairy business is a muff.
Your engine fraught with cooling gales,
At once fo like your mafts and fails;
And for the rhyme to you're the man,
What fits it better than a fan?
TO RESTORE STELLA'S YOUTH. 1724-5.
THE Scottish hinds, too poor to house
In frofty nights their ftarving cows,
While not a blade of grafs or hay
Appears from Michaelmas to May,
Muft let their cattle range in vain
For food along the barren plain.
Meagre and lank with fafting grown,
And nothing left but fkin and bone;
Expos'd to want, and wind, and weather,
They just keep life and foul together,
Till fummer-showers and evening's dew
Again the verdant glebe renew;
And, as the vegetables rise,
The famifh'd cow her want fupplies:
Without an ounce of laft year's flesh;
Whate'er fhe gains is young and fresh;
Grows plump and round, and full of mettle,
As rifing from Medea's kettle,
With youth and beauty to inchant
Europa's counterfeit gallant.
Why, Stella, fhould you
knit your brow,
If I compare you to the cow?
'Tis juft the cafe; for you have fafted
So long, till all your flesh is wafted;
And must against the warmer days
Be fent to Quilca down to graze ;
Where mirth, and exercife, and air,
Will foon your appetite repair:
The nutriment will from within,
Round all your body, plump your skin;
Will agitate the lazy flood,
And fill your veins with fprightly blood:
Nor flesh nor blood will be the fame,
Nor aught of Stella but the name;
For what was ever understood,
By human kind, but flesh and blood?
And if your flesh and blood be new,
You'll be no more the former you;
But for a blooming nymph will pafs,
Just fifteen, coming fummer's grafs,
Your jetty locks with garlands crown'd:
While all the 'fquires for nine miles round,
Attended by a brace of curs,
With jocky boots and filver fpurs,
No less than juftices o'quorum,
Their cow-boys bearing cloaks before 'em,
Shall leave deciding broken pates,
To kiss your steps at Quilca gates.
But, left you fhould my fkill disgrace,
Come back before you're out of case;
For if to Michaelmas you stay,
The new-born flesh will melt away;
The 'fquire in fcorn will fly the house
For better game, and look for grouse;
But here, before the froft can mar it,
We'll make it firm with beef and claret.
STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY. 1724-5.
AS, when a beauteous nymph decays,
We fay, fhe's paft her dancing-days;
So poets lose 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
To fill a place, for want of better:
While Sheridan is off the hooks,
And friend Delany at his books,
C That Stella may avoid difgrace,
Once more the Dean fupplies 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 she fifteen.
No poet ever sweetly fung,
Unless he were, like Phoebus, young;
Nor ever nymph infpir'd to rhyme,
Unless, like Venus, in her prime.
At fifty-fix, if this be true,
Am I 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 wise.
Our fate in vain we would oppose:
But I'll be ftill your friend in profe:
Efteem and friendship to express,
Will not require poetic dress;
And, if the Muse 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 fcythe to mow
Where erft fat 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 fomewhat dimmish grown;
For nature, always in the right,
To your decays adapts my fight;
And wrinkles undistinguish'd pafs,
For I'm afham'd to use a glass;
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, fenfe and wit:
Thus you may still be young to me,
While I can better hear than fee.
Oh, ne'er may Fortune shew her spight,
To make me deaf, and mend my fight!
AN EPIGRAM
ON WOOD'S BRASS-MONEY.
ARTERET was welcom❜d to the shore
Firft with the brazen cannons roar ;
To meet him next the foldier comes,
With brazen trumps and brazen drums;
Approaching near the town, he hears
The brazen bells falute his ears:
But, when Wood's brafs began to found,
Guns, trumpets, drums, and bells, were drown'd.
SIMILE,
ON OUR WANT OF SILVER:
And the only WAY to REMEDY it. 1725.
AS when of old fome forceress threw
O'er the moon's face a fable hue,
To drive unfeen her magic chair,
At midnight through the darken'd air
Wife people, who believ'd with reason
That this eclipse was out of season,
Affirm'd the moon was fick, and fell
To cure her by a counter-spell.
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