So, if this Pile of scatter'd Rhymes
Should be approv'd in After-times;
If it both pleases and endures,
The Merit and the Praise are yours.
THOU, Stella, wert no longer young,
When first for thee my Harp I ftrung;
Without one Word of Cupid's Darts,
Of killing Eyes, or bleeding Hearts:
With Friendship and Efteem poffeft,
I ne'er admitted Love a Gueft.
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 best:
(The best we value by the worst,
As Tradefmen fhew their Trash at first :)
But his Pursuits are at an End,
Whom Stella chufes for a Friend.
A POT, ftarving in a Garret,
Conning old Topicks like a Parrot,
Invokes his Mistress and his Muse,
And stays at home for Want of Shoes:
Should but his Mufe defcending drop
A Slice of Bread, and Mutton-Chop;
Or kindly when his Credit's out,
Surprize him with a Pint of * Stout;
Or patch his broken Stocking Soals;
Or fend him in a Peck of Coals;
Exalted in his mighty Mind
He flies, and leaves the Stars 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 Sign,
The Bow'rs that hold thofe Nymphs divine;
Fair Chloe would perhaps be found
With Footmen tippling under Ground;
The charming Sylvia beating Flax,
Her Shoulders mark'd with bloody Tracks;
Bright Phyllis mending ragged Smocks;
And radiant Iris in the Pox.
THESE are the Goddeffes enroll'd
In Curl's Collections, new and old,
Whose fcoundrel Fathers would not know 'em,
If they should meet 'em in a Poem.
TRUE Poets can depress and raise; Are Lords of Infamy and Praise :
Cant Word for Strong-Beer,
They are not scurrilous in Satire,
Nor will in Panegyrick flatter.
Unjustly Poets we afperfe;
Truth fhines the brighter, clad in Verse :
And all the Fictions they pursue,
Do but infinuate what is true.
Now, fhould my Praises owe their Truth
To Beauty, Dress, or Paint, or Youth,
What Stoicks call without our Power;
They could not be infur❜d an Hour:
'Twere grafting on an annual Stock,
That must our Expectation mock,
And making one luxuriant Shoot,
Die the next Year for want of Root:
Before I could my Verses bring,
Perhaps you're quite another Thing.
So Mævius, when he drain'd his Skull
To celebrate fome Suburb Trull;
His Similies in Order fet,
And ev'ry Crambo he could get;
Had gone through all the common Places,
Worn out by Wits who rhyme on Faces;
Before he could his Poem close,
The lovely Nymph had loft her Nose.
YOUR Virtues fafely I commend;
They on no Accidents depend:
Let Malice look with all her Eyes,
She dares not fay, the Poet lyes.
STELLA, when you these Lines transcribe, Left you fhould take them for a Bribe; Refolv'd to mortify your Pride,
I'll here expose your weaker Side.
YOUR Spirits kindle to a Flame,
Mov'd with the lightest Touch of Blame;
And when a Friend in Kindness tries
To fhew you where your Error lies,
Conviction does but more incenfe;
Perverseness is your whole Defence:
Truth, Judgment, Wit, give Place to Spight,
Regardless both of Wrong and Right.
Your Virtues, all suspended, wait
Till Time hath open'd Reafon's Gate:
And what is worse, your Paffion bends
Its Force against your nearest Friends;
Which Manners, Decency, and Pride,
Have taught you from the World to hide.
In vain for fee, your Friend hath brought
To publick Light your only Fau't;
And yet a Fault we often find
Mix'd in a noble generous Mind; #
And may compare to Etna's Fire,
Which, tho' with trembling, all admire ;
The Heat, that makes the Summit glow,
Enriching all the Vales below.
Those, who in warmer Climes complain,
From Phebus Rays they fuffer Pain ;
Muft own, that Pain is largely paid
By gen'rous Wines beneath a Shade.
YET, when I find your Paffions rife,
And Anger sparkling in your Eyes,
I grieve thofe Spirits fhould be spent,
For nobler Ends by Nature meant.
One Paffion with a diff'rent Turn,
Makes Wit inflame, or Anger burn;
So the Sun's Heat, by diff'rent Pow❜rs,
Ripens the Grape, the Liquor fours.
Thus Ajax, when with Rage poffeft,
By Pallas breath'd into his Breast,
His Valour would no more employ,
Which might alone have conquer'd Troy;
But, blinded by Refentment, seeks
For Vengeance on his Friends, the Greeks.
You think this Turbulence of Blood From ftagnating preferves the Flood; Which, thus fermenting, by Degrees Exalts the Spirits, finks the Lees.
STELLA, for once you reafon wrong;
For fhould his Ferment laft too long,
By Time fubfiding, you may find
Nothing but Acid left behind.
From Paffion you may then be freed,
When Peevishness and Spleen fucceed.
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