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 strangers 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 fense;
And puts them but to fmall expence ;
Their mind fo 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 fcraps 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;
Though you, and all your fenfelefs 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 fenfe will pafs your door,
And crowd to Stella's at fourfcore.
A great bottle of wine, long buried, being that day dug up. 1722.
RESOLV'D my annual verfe to pay,
By duty bound, on Stella's day,
Furnish'd with paper, pens, and ink,
I gravely fat me down to think ::
I bit my nails, and scratch'd my head,
But found my wit and fancy fled:
Or, if with more than ufual pain,
A thought came flowly from my brain,
It coft me lord knows how much time
To shape it into fenfe and rhyme:
And, what was yet a greater curfe,
Long-thinking made my fancy worse.
Forfaken by th' infpiring nine,
I waited at Apollo's fhrine:
I told him what the world would fay,
If Stella were unfung to-day;
How I fhou'd hide my head for fhame,
When both the Jacks and Robin came;
How Ford would frown, how Jim would
leer,
How Sh-r the rogue would fneer,
And fwear it does not always follow,
That femel'n anno ridet Apollo.
I have affur'd them twenty times,
That Phoebus help'd me in my rhymes,
Phoebus infpir'd me from above;
And he and I were hand and glove.
But, finding me fo dull and dry fince,
They'll call it all poetick licence;
And, when I brag of aid divine,
Think Eufden's right as good as mine.
Nor do I afk for Stella's fake;
'Tis my own credit lies at ftake:
And Stella will be fung, while I
Can only be a stander-by.
Apollo, having thought a little,
Return'd this anfwer to a tittle:
Tho youfhould live like old Metbufalem, I furnish hints, and you should use all'em, You yearly fing as the grows old, You'd leave her virtues half untold. But, to fay truth, fuch dulness reigns Through the whole fet of Irish deans, I'm daily stunn'd with fuch a medley, Dean W, and D, and dean Smedley, That, let what dean foever come, My orders are, I'm not at home; And, if your voice had not been loud, You must have pafs'd among the crowd. But now, your danger to prevent, You must apply to mrs. Brent;
For fhe, as prieftefs, knows the rites
Wherein the God of earth delights.
First, nine ways looking, let her ftand
With an old poker in her hand;
Let her defcribe a circle round
In Saunder's cellar on the ground:
A fpade let prudent Archy hold,
And with discretion dig the mould:
Let Stella look with watchful eye,
* Rebecca, 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 confpire;
And Bacchus for the poet's use
Pour'd in a strong infpiring juice.
See! as you raise it from its tomb,
It drags behind a spacious womb,
And in the fpacious womb contains
A fov'reign med'cine for the brains.
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 infuse, And boldly then invoke the muse;
The butler.. • The footman.
A lady, friend to Stella. • Friends of the author.
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