Whofe fcoundrel fathers wou'd not know
If they fhou'd meet them in a poem.
True poets can depress and raise,
Are lords of infamy and praise ;
They are not fcurrilous in fatire,
Nor will in panegyrick flatter.
Unjustly poets we asperse;
Truth fhines the brighter clad in verfe;
And all the fictions they pursue,
Do but infinuate what is true.
Now, fhould my praises owe their truth
To beauty, dress, or paint, or youth,
What Stoicks call without our pow'r,
They could not be infur'd an hour:
'Twere grafting on an annual stock,
That must our expectation mock,
And, making one luxuriant fhoot,
Die the next year for want of root:
Before I cou'd my verfes bring,
Perhaps you're quite another thing.
So Mævius, when he drain'd his fkull To celebrate fome fuburb trull, His fimilies in order fet,
And ev'ry crambo he cou'd get;
Had gone through all the common-places Worn out by wits, who rhyme on faces: е
Before he could his poem close,
The lovely nymph had loft her nose.
Your virtues fafely I commend ;
They on no accidents depend :
Let malice look with all her eyes,
She dares not fay the poet lyes.
Stella, when you these lines transcribe,
Left you fhould take them for a bribe,
Refolv'd to mortify your pride,
I'll here expose your weaker fide.
Your spirits kindle to a flame,
Mov'd with the lightest touch of blame;
And, when a friend in kindness tries
To fhew you where your error lies,
Conviction does but more incense;
Perverseness is your whole defence;
Truth, judgment, wit, give place to spight,
Regardless both of wrong and right;
Your virtues all fufpended wait
Till time hath open'd reafon's gate;
And, what is worse, your paffion bends
Its force against your nearest friends ;
Which manners, decency, and pride
Have taught you from the world to hide :
In vain; for fee, your friend hath brought
To publick light your only fault;
And yet a fault we often find
Mix'd in a noble gen'rous mind;
And may compare to Etna's fire,
Which, though with trembling, all admire;
The heat, that makes the fummit glow,
Enriching all the vales below.
Those who in warmer climes complain
From Phoebus' rays they fuffer pain,
Muft own, that pain is largely paid
By gen'rous wines beneath a fhade.
Yet, when I find your paffions rife,
And anger sparkling in your eyes,
I grieve those spirits should be spent,
For nobler ends by nature meant.
One paffion with a diff'rent turn
Makes wit inflame, or anger burn:
So the fun's heat with diff'rent pow'rs
Ripens the grape, the liquors fours:
Thus Ajax, when with rage poffest
By Pallas breath'd into his breast,
His valour wou'd no more employ,
Which might alone have conquer'd Troy;
But blinded by refentment feeks
For vengeance on his friends the Greeks.
You think this turbulence of blood
From ftagnating preferves the flood,
Which thus fermenting by degrees
Exalts the fpirits, finks the lees.
Stella, for once you reason wrong;
For, fhou'd this ferment last too long,
By time fubfiding, you may find
Nothing but acid left behind:
From paffion you may then be freed,
When peevishness and spleen fucceed.
Say, Stella, when you copy next,
Will you keep ftrictly to the text?
Dare you let these reproaches ftand,
And to your failing set your hand?
Or, if these lines your anger fire,
Shall they in bafer flames expire?
Whene'er they burn, if burn they must,
They'll prove my accusation just.
T was a moft unfriendly part
In you, who ought to know my heart, So well acquainted with my zeal
For all the female common-weal
How cou'd it come into your mind
To pitch on me, of all mankind,
Against the sex to write a fatire,
And brand me for a woman-hater?
On me, who think them all fo fair,
They rival Venus to a hair;
Their virtues never ceas'd to fing,
Since firft I learn'd to tune a string?
Methinks, I hear the ladies cry,
Will he his character belye?
Muft never our misfortunes end?
And have we loft our only friend?
Ah, lovely nymphs, remove your fears,
No more let fall those precious tears.
Sooner fhall, etc.
[Here feveral verfes are omitted.]
The hound be hunted by the hare,
Than I turn rebel to the fair.
'Twas you engag'd me first to write,
Then gave the fubject out of spite:
The journal of a modern dame
Is by my promise what you claim.
My word is paft, I muft fubmit;
And yet perhaps you may be bit.
I but tranfcribe; for not a line
Of all the fatire fhall be mine.
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