第28章

STELLA'S BIRTHDAY, 1718.

STELLA this day is thirty-four (We shan't dispute a year or more)However, Stella, be not troubled, Although thy size and years are doubled Since first I saw thee at sixteen, The brightest virgin on the green.

So little is thy form declined;

Made up so largely in thy mind.

Oh, would it please the gods to split Thy beauty, size, and years, and wit, No age could furnish out a pair Of nymphs so graceful, wise, and fair:

With half the lustre 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 lack her swain), To split my worship too in twain.

STELLA'S BIRTHDAY, 1720.

ALL travellers at first incline Where'er they see 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 every friend What though the painting grows decayed, The house will never lose its trade:

Nay, though the treach'rous tapster 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 shame and sin, To quit the true old Angel Inn.

Now, this is Stella's case in fact, An angel's face, a little cracked (Could poets, or could painters fix How angels look at, thirty-six):

This drew us in at first, to find In such a form an angel's mind;And every virtue now supplies The fainting rays of Stella's eyes.

See, at her levee, crowding swains, Whom Stella freely entertains, With breeding, humour, wit, and sense;And puts them but to small expense;

Their mind so plentifully fills, And makes such reasonable bills, So little gets for what she gives, We really wonder how she lives!

And had her stock been less, 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 stop and light at Cloe's Head, With scraps and leavings to be fed.

Then Cloe, still go on to prate Of thirty-six, and thirty-eight;Pursue your trade of scandal picking, Your hints that Stella is no chicken.

Your innuendoes 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 see the day When Stella's locks, must all be grey, When age must print a furrowed trace On every feature of her face;Though you and all your senseless 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 fourscore.

STELLA'S BIRTHDAY.

A GREAT BOTTLE OF WINE, LONG BURIED, BEING THAT DAY DUG UP.1722.

Resolved my annual verse to pay, By duty bound, on Stella's day;Furnished with paper, pens, and ink, I gravely sat me down to think:

I bit my nails, and scratched my head, But found my wit and fancy fled;Or, if with more than usual pain, A thought came slowly from my brain, It cost me Lord knows how much time To shape it into sense and rhyme;And, what was yet a greater curse, Long-thinking made my fancy worse Forsaken by th' inspiring nine, I waited at Apollo's shrine;I told him what the world would sa If Stella were unsung to-day;How I should hide my head for shame, When both the Jacks and Robin came;How Ford would frown, how Jim would leer, How Sh-r the rogue would sneer, And swear it does not always follow, That SEMEL'N ANNO RIDET Apollo.

I have assured them twenty times, That Phoebus helped me in my rhymes, Phoebus inspired me from above, And he and I were hand and glove.

But finding me so dull and dry since, They'll call it all poetic licence.

And when I brag of aid divine, Think Eusden's right as good as mine.

Nor do I ask for Stella's sake;

'Tis my own credit lies at stake.

And Stella will be sung, while I

Can only be a stander by.

Apollo having thought a little, Returned this answer to a tittle.

Tho' you should live like old Methusalem, I furnish hints, and you should use all 'em, You yearly sing as she grows old, You'd leave her virtues half untold.

But to say truth, such dulness reigns Through the whole set of Irish Deans;I'm daily stunned with such a medley, Dean W-, Dean D-l, and Dean S-;That let what Dean soever come, My orders are, I'm not at home;And if your voice had not been loud, You must have passed among the crowd.

But, now your danger to prevent, You must apply to Mrs.Brent, For she, as priestess, knows the rites Wherein the God of Earth delights.

First, nine ways looking, let her stand With an old poker in her hand;Let her describe a circle round In Saunder's cellar on the ground A spade let prudent Archy hold, And with discretion dig the mould;Let Stella look with watchful eye, Rebecea, Ford, and Grattons by.

Behold the bottle, where it lies With neck elated tow'rds the skies!

The god of winds, and god of fire, Did to its wondrous birth conspire;And Bacchus for the poet's use Poured in a strong inspiring juice:

See! as you raise it from its tomb, It drags behind a spacious womb, And in the spacious womb contains A sovereign med'cine for the brains.

You'll find it soon, if fate consents;