I ftudied a Fortnight, before I could find,
As I rode in my Chariot, a Thought to my Mind, And refolv'd the next Winter, (for that is my Time, When the Days are at shortest,) to get it in Rhime; 'Till then it was lock'd in my Box at Parnaffus: When that fubtil Companion, in Hopes to furpass us,
Conveys out my Paper of Hints by a Trick,
(For I think, in my Conscience, he deals with old
Nick.)
And from my own Stock provided with Topicks,
He gets to a Window beyond both the Tropicks;
There out of my Sight, just against the North Zone,
Writes down my Conceits, and calls them his own;
And you, like a Cully, the Bubble can swallow:
Now, who but Delany that writes like Apollo?
High Treafon by Statute. But here you object,
He only stole Hints, but the Verfe is correct.
Tho' the Thought be Apollo's, 'tis finely exprefs'd.
So a Thief steals my Horfe, and has him well
drefs'd.
Now, whereas the faid Criminal feems paft Re
We Phabus think fit to proceed to the Sentence;
Since Delany has dar'd, like Prometheus his Sire,
To climb to our Region, and thence to steal Fire;
We order a Vulture in Shape of the Spleen,
To
prey on his Liver, but not to be seen.
And we order our Subjects of ev'ry Degree,
To believe all his Verfes were written by me;
And, under the Pain of our highest Displeasure,
To call nothing his, but the Rhime and the Mea-
fure.
And lastly, for Stella juft out of her Prime,
I'm too much reveng'd already by Time.
In return to her Scorn, I fent her Difeafes,
But will now be her Friend, whenever the pleases.
And the Gifts I bestow'd her will find her a Lover,
Tho' fhe lives to be grey as a Badger all over,
Written in the YEAR 1724.
S, when a beauteous Nymph decays,
We fay, she's past 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 House-keeper, 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 D-n 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 fweetly fung,
Unless he were like Phabus, young;
Nor ever Nymph inspir'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 Subje& fit for me?
Adieu bright Wit, and radiant Eyes;
You must be grave, and I be wife.
Our Fate in vain we would oppofe,
But I'll be still your Friend in Profe;
Efteem and Friendship to exprefs,
Will not require poetick 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 Scythe to mow,
Where erft fate 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 Sight;
And Wrinkles undiftinguish'd pass,
For I'm afham'd to use a Glafs;
And till I fee them with these Eyes,
Whoever fays you have them, lyes,
No Length of Time can make you quit
Honour and Virtue, Senfe and Wit:
Thus you may still be young to me,
While I can better bear than fee;
Oh, ne'er may Fortune fhew her Spight,
To make me deaf, and mend my Sight.
An Imitation of PETRONIUS.
Somnia qua mentes ludunt volitantibus umbris, &c.
Written in the Year 1724.1
HOSE Dreams that on the filent Night intrude,
And with false flitting Shades our Minds de-
lude,
Jove never fends us downward from the Skies,
Nor can they from infernal Manfions rise;
But are all mere Productions of the Brain,
And Fools confult Interpreters in vain.
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