In all the Habitudes of Life,
The Friend, the Miftrefs, and the Wife,
Variety we still pursue,
In Pleasure feek for fomething new: a monit Or elfe, comparing with the reft,
Take Comfort, that our own is beft ; ET LA The best we value by the worst,
(As Tradefmen fhew their Trash at first ;).
But his Purfuits are at an End;
Whom Stella chufes for a Friend.
A POET, ftarving in a Garret,
Conning old Topicks like a Parrot, Ink
Invokes his Mistress and his Mufe,
And stays at Home for want of Shoes :
Shou'd but his Mufe defcending drop
A Slice of Bread and Mutton-Chop,
Or kindly, when his Credit's out,
Surprize him with a Pint of Stout.
Or patch his broken Stockings Soals,
Or fend him in a Peck of Coals;
Exalted in his mighty Mind
He flies, and leaves the Stars behind
Counts all his Labours amply paid,
Adores her for the timely Aid.
OR fhou'd a Porter make Enquiries
For Chloe, Sylvia, Phyllis, Iris,
Be told the Lodging, Lane, and Sign,
The Bow'rs that hold thofe Nymphs divine;
Fair Chloe would perhaps be found
With Footmen tippling under Ground,
The charming Sylvia beating Flax,
Her Shoulders mark'd with bloody Tracks;
Bright Phillis mending ragged Smocks.
And radiant Iris in the Pox.
THESE are the Goddeffes enroll'd
In Curll's Collections, new and old,
Whofe Scoundrel Fathers wou'd not know 'em,
If they should meet them in a Poem.
TRUE Poets can depress and raise ;
Are Lords of Infamy and Praife
They are not fcurrilous in Satire,
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 Praifes 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 muft our Expectation mock,
And making one luxuriant Shoot,
Die the next Year for want of Root
Before I cou'd my Verfes bring.
Perhaps you're quite another Thing.
So Mavius, when he drain'd his Skull, To celebrate fome Suburb Trull;
His Similies in Order fet,
And ev'ry Crambo he cou'd get;
Had gone thro' all the Common-Places,
Worn out by Wits who rhyme on Faces ;
Before he could his Poem clofe,
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 lies.
STELLA, when you thefe Lines transcribe,
Left you fhould take them for a Bribe,
Refolv'd to mortify your Pride,
I'll here expofe your weaker Side.
Your Spirits kindle to a Flame,
Mov'd with the lighteft 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 Spite,
Regardless both of Wrong and Right,
Your Virtues all fufpended, wait
Till Time hath open'd Reafon's Gate;
And what is worfe, your Paffion bends
Its Force against your nearest Friends;
Which Manners, Decency, and Pride,
Have taught you from the World to hide
İn vain; for fee, your Friend hath brought
To publick Light your only Fault;
e often find
And yet a Fault we
Mix'd in a noble gentous Mind,
And may compare to Etha's Fire, d Linco st
Which, tho' with Trembling, all
The Heat that makes the Summit glow,"
Enriching all the Vales below.
Those who in warmer Chimes complain
From Phebus' Rays they fuffer Pain,"
Muft own, that Pain is largely paid
By gen'rous Wines beneath the Shade."
YET when I find your Paffions tile, Lidova And Anger sparkling in your Eyes,
I grieve thole Spirits Thould be spent,
For nobler Ends by Nature meant.
One Paffion with a diffrent Turn,
Makes Wit inflame, or Anger burn;
So the Sun's Heat, with diffrent Powsze
Ripens the Grape, the Liquors fours.
Thus Ajax, when with Rage poffeft
By Pallas breath'd into his Breaft,
His Valour wou'd no more employ,
Which might alone have conquer'd Troy's
But blinded by Refentmen, feeks
For Vengeance on his Friends the Greeks.
You think this Turbulence of Blood
From stagnating preferves the Flood:
Which thus fermenting, by Degrees
Exalts the Spirits, finks the Lees.
STELLA, for once you reason wrong;
For fhou'd this Ferment laft 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 strictly to the Text?
Dare you let these Reproaches ftand,
Hand?
And to your Failing fet your
Or if these Lines your Anger fire,
Shall they in bafer Flames expire ?
Whene'er they burn, if burn they muft,
They'll prove my Accusation just.
The JOURNAL of a Modern LADY.
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:
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