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YOU'LL find it foon, if fate confents; If not, a thousand Mrs Brents,

Ten thousand Archys arm'd with spades,
May dig in vain to Pluto's fhades.

FROM thence a plenteous draught infufe,

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And boldly then invoke the muse;

(But 'first let Robert *, on his knees,
With caution drain it from the lees);
The mufe will at your call appear,
With Stella's praise to crown the year.

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STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY, 1724.

AS when a beauteous nymph decays,
We fay, fhe's paft 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 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 difgrace,

Once more the Dean supplies 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 she fifteen.
No poet ever fweetly fung,

Unless he were, like Phoebus, young;

The valet.

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You must be grave, and I be wife.
Our fate in vain we would oppofe :
But i'll be ftill your friend in profe:
Efteem and friendship to exprefs,
Will not require poetic drefs;
And if the mufe deny her aid

To have them fung, they may be said.
BUT, Stella, fay, what evil tongue

Reports you are no longer young;
That Time fits with his fithe to mow
Where erft fat Cupid with his bow;
That half your locks are turn'd to gray?
I'll ne'er believe a word they fay.
"Tis true, but let it not be known,
My eyes are fomewhat dimish
For nature, always in the right,
To your decays adapts my fight;
And wrinkles undistinguish'd pass,
For I'm afham'd to use a glass;
And till I fee them with thefe eyes,
Whoever fays you have them, lies.

grown :

No length of time can make you quit

Honour and virtue, fenfe and wit:
Thus you may ftill be young to me,
While I can better bear than fee.
Oh, ne'er may fortune fhew her spight,
To niake me deaf and mend my fight!

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STELLA

STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY, March 13.1726.

THIS day, whate'er the fates decree,

Shall ftill be kept with joy by me:

This day then let us not be told,
That you are fick, and 1 grown old;
Nor think on our approaching ills,
And talk of spectacles and pills :
To-morrow will be time enough
To hear fuch mortifying ftuff.
Yet fince from reafon may be brought
A better and more pleafing thought,
Which can, in spite of all decays,
Support a few remaining days,
From not the graveft of divines
Accept for once fome ferious lines.

ALTHO' we now can form no more
Long schemes of life as heretofore;
Yet you, while time is running faft,
Can look with joy on what is past.

WERE future happiness and pain
A mere contrivance of the brain,
As Atheists argue, to entice
And fit their profelytes for vice,
(The only comfort they propofe,
To have companions in their woes):
Grant this the cafe; yet fure 'tis hard
That virtue, ftyl'd its own reward,

And by all fages understood
To be the chief of human good,
Should acting die, nor leave behind
Some lafting pleafure in the mind,
Which by remembrance will affwage
Grief, fickness, poverty, and age,

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And frongly fhoot a radiant dart
To shine thro' life's declining part.
SAY, Stella, feel you no content,
Reflecting on a life well spent?
Your skilful hand employ'd to fave
Defpairing wretches from the grave;

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And then fupporting with your flore

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That fly, and leave no marks behind 2
Does not the body thrive and grow

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By food of twenty years ago?
And had it not been fill fupply'd,.
It muft a thousand times have dy'd.

Then who with reafon can maintain
That no effects; of food remain ?

The nutriment that feeds the mind;

And is not virtue in mankind

Upheld by each good action paft,.

And ftill continu'd by the laft ?
Then, who with reason can pretend
That all effects of virtue end

BELIEVR me,, Stella, when you show
That true contempt for things below,

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Nor prize your life for other ends

Than merely to oblige your friends,

Your former actions claim their part,
And join to fortify your heart.

For virtue in her daily race,

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Like Janus, bears a double face;

Looks back with joy where fhe has gone,
And therefore goes with courage on.
She at your fickly couch will wait,
And guide you to a better state.

O then, whatever Heaven intends,
Take pity on your pitying friends!
Nor let your ills affect your mind,
To fancy they can be unkind.
Me, furely me, you ought to fpare,
Who gladly would your fuff'rings fhare;
Or give my scrap of life to you,

And think it far beneath your due ;
You, to whofe care fo oft I owe

That I'm alive to tell you Lo..

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*To Mrs MARTHA BLOUNT†. Sent on her birth-day, June 15.

H, be thon blefs'd with all that Heav'n can fend,

OH

Long health, long youth, long pleasure, and a
friend!

Not with thofe toys the female race admire,.
Riches that vex, and vanities that tire;
Not as the world its pretty flaves rewards,

A youth of frolics, an old age of cards;

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+ This poem was wrote by Mr Pope. It appears from his will, that he had had a fincere regard and long affection for the lady to whom it is addreffed.

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