He hop'd to find some lucky hour, When on their queen the muses wait: But Pallas owns Ardelia's pow'r;
For vows divine are kept by fate.
Then, full of rage, Apollo spoke : Deceitful nymph, I fee thy art; And, though I can't my gift revoke, I'll difappoint its nobler part.
Let ftubborn pride poffefs thee long, And be thou negligent of fame; With ev'ry mufe to grace thy fong, May'st thou despise a poet's name,
Of modeft poets be thou firft;
To filent fhades repeat thy verse, Till Fame and Echo almoft burst, Yet hardly dare one line rehearse.
And laft, my vengeance to compleat, May you defcend to take renown, Prevail'd on by the thing you hate, A whig, and one that wears a gown.
To Lady WINCHELSEA.
Occafion'd by four Satirical Verses on Women-Wits in The Rape of the Lock.
IN N vain you boast poetic names of yore, And cite thofe Sapphoswe admire no more: Fate doom'd the fall of ev'ry female wit; But doom'd it then, when firft Ardelia writ. Of all examples by the world confeft, I knew Ardelia could not quote the best ; Who, like her mistress on Britannia's throne, Fights and fubdues in quarrels not her own. To write their praise you but in vain effay; Ev'n while you write, you take that praise
Light to the stars the fun does thus restore, But shines himself till they are feen no more.
* EPIGRAM.
A Bishop by his neighbours hated
Has cause to wifh himself tranflated:
But why shou'd Hough defire tranflation, Lov'd and esteem'd by all the nation? Yet, if it be the old man's cafe,
I'll lay my life, I know the place: 'Tis where God fent fome that adore him,
And whither Enoch went before him.
STELLA this day is thirty-four,
(We fha'n't difpute a year or more :) However, Stella, be not troubled; Although thy fize and years are doubled, Since firft I faw thee at fixteen, The brightest virgin on the green, So little is thy form declin'd;
fo largely in thy mind.
Oh, wou'd it please the Gods to split Thy beauty, fize, 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 fize. And then, before it grew too late, How fhou'd I beg of gentle fate (That either nymph might have her fwain) To fplit my worship too in twain.
STELLA'S Birth-Day. 1720.
LL travellers at firft incline Where-e'er they see the faireft fign; 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 dawber's hands can make it, In hopes that ftrangers may mistake it, We think it both a fhame and fin 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 fwains, Whom Stella freely entertains With breeding, humour, wit, and sense; And puts them but to small expence ; Their mind so plentifully fills, And makes fuch reasonable bills, So little gets for what she 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; K 4
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 fcandal-picking, Your hints, that Stella is no chicken Your innuendos, when tell us
That Stella loves to talk with fellows : And let me warn you to believe
A truth, for which your foul fhould grieve; That, fhould 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;
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 fenfe will pafs your door, And crowd to Stella's at fourscore.
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