Their Victuals bad, their Lodging worse;
Phyl cry'd, and John began to curfe;
Phyl wish'd, that he had ftrain'd a Limb,
When first she ventur'd out with him :
John wifh'd, that he had broke a Leg,
When firft for her he quitted Peg.
BUT what Adventures more befel 'em,
The Muse hath now no time to tell 'em.
How Johnny wheadled, threatned, fawn'd,
Till Phyllis all her Trinkets pawn'd:
How oft the broke her Marriage Vows,
In Kindness, to maintain her Spouse,
Till Swains unwholfome spoil'd the Trade
For now the Surgeon must be paid,
To whom those Perquifites are gone,
In Christian Justice due to John.
WHEN Food and Rayment now grew fcarce,
Fate put a Period to the Farce,
And with exact poetick Justice;
For, John is Landlord, Phyllis Hoftess:
They keep, at Staines, the old blue Boar,
Are Cat and Dog, and Rogue and Whore.
Written in the YEAR 1718.
TELLA this Day is Thirty-four,
(We fhan't difpute a Year or more) However Stella, be not troubled,
Although thy Size and Years are doubled,
Since firft I faw thee at Sixteen,
The brightest Virgin on the Green.
So little is thy Form declin'd; I
Made up fo largely in thy Mind.
Oн, would it please the Gods, to split
Thy Beauty, Size, 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 Size.
And then, before it grew too late,
How should I beg of gentle Fate,
(That either Nymph might have her Swain,) To fplit my Worship too in twain.
Written in the Year 1720.
LL Travellers at firft incline
Where'er they fee the fairest Sign;
And if they find the Chambers neat,
And like the Liquor, and the Meat,
Will call again, and recommend
The Angel-Inn to ev'ry Friend
What though the Painting grows decay'd,
The House will never lofe its Trade:
Nay, though the treach'rous Tapfter Thomas
Hangs a new Angel two Doors from us,
As fine as Dawbers Hands can make it,
In hopes that Strangers may mistake it;
We think it both a Shame and Sin
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 crowding Swains;
Whom Stella freely entertains,
With Breeding, Humour, Wit and Senfe;
And puts them to fo fmall Expence :
Their Mind fo plentifully fills,
And makes fuch reasonable Bills;
So little gets for what the gives,
We really wonder how the lives!
And had her Stock 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 Scraps 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 Inuendo's, when you tell us
That Stella loves to talk with Fellows:
And let me warn you to believe.
A Truth, for which your Soul should grieve:
That should you live to fee the Day:
When Stella's Locks must all be grey;
When Age must print a furrow'd Trace
On ev'ry 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 Sense will pass your Door,
And crowd to Stella's at Fourfcore.
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