Part 6 (2/2)

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 sc.r.a.ps 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 pa.s.s 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 a.s.sured 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 t.i.ttle.

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 pa.s.sed among the crowd.

But, now your danger to prevent, You must apply to Mrs. Brent, {2} For she, as priestess, knows the rites Wherein the G.o.d 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 {3} cellar on the ground A spade let prudent Archy {4} 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 G.o.d of winds, and G.o.d 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 s.p.a.cious womb, And in the s.p.a.cious womb contains A sovereign med'cine for the brains.

You'll find it soon, if fate consents; If not, a thousand Mrs. Brents, Ten thousand Archys arm'd with spades, May dig in vain to Pluto's shades.

From thence a plenteous draught infuse, And boldly then invoke the muse (But first let Robert on his knees With caution drain it from the lees); The muse will at your call appear, With Stella's praise to crown the year.

STELLA'S BIRTHDAY, 1724.

As when a beauteous nymph decays, We say she's past her dancing days; So poets lose their feet by time, And can no longer dance in rhyme.

Your annual bard had rather chose To celebrate your birth in prose; Yet merry folks who want by chance A pair to make a country dance, Call the old housekeeper, 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 disgrace, Once more the Dean supplies their place.

Beauty and wit, too sad a truth, Have always been confined to youth; The G.o.d of wit, and beauty's queen, He twenty-one, and she fifteen; No poet ever sweetly sung.

Unless he were like Phoebus, young; Nor ever nymph inspired to rhyme, Unless like Venus in her prime.

At fifty-six, if this be true, Am I a poet fit for you; Or at the age of forty-three, Are you a subject fit for me?

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