1713

The shepherds and the nymphs were seen
Pleading before the Cyprian queen. 
The counsel for the fair began,
Accusing the false creature Man. 
The brief with weighty crimes was charged
On which the pleader much enlarged;
That Cupid now has lost his art,
Or blunts the point of every dart; ­
His altar now no longer smokes,
His mother’s aid no youth invokes: 
This tempts freethinkers to refine,
And bring in doubt their powers divine;
Now love is dwindled to intrigue,
And marriage grown a money league;
Which crimes aforesaid (with her leave)
Were (as he humbly did conceive)
Against our sovereign lady’s peace,
Against the statute in that case,
Against her dignity and crown: 
Then pray’d an answer, and sat down. 
  The nymphs with scorn beheld their foes;
When the defendant’s counsel rose,
And, what no lawyer ever lack’d,
With impudence own’d all the fact;
But, what the gentlest heart would vex,
Laid all the fault on t’other sex. 
That modern love is no such thing
As what those ancient poets sing: 
A fire celestial, chaste, refined,
Conceived and kindled in the mind;
Which, having found an equal flame,
Unites, and both become the same,
In different breasts together burn,
Together both to ashes turn. 
But women now feel no such fire,
And only know the gross desire. 
Their passions move in lower spheres,
Where’er caprice or folly steers,
A dog, a parrot, or an ape,
Or some worse brute in human shape,
Engross the fancies of the fair,
The few soft moments they can spare,
From visits to receive and pay,
From scandal, politics, and play;
From fans, and flounces, and brocades,
From equipage and park parades,
From all the thousand female toys,
From every trifle that employs
The out or inside of their heads,
Between their toilets and their beds. 
  In a dull stream, which moving slow,
You hardly see the current flow;
If a small breeze obstruct the course,
It whirls about, for want of force,
And in its narrow circle gathers
Nothing but chaff, and straws, and feathers. 
The current of a female mind
Stops thus, and turns with every wind: 
Thus whirling round together draws
Fools, fops, and rakes, for chaff and straws. 
Hence we conclude, no women’s hearts
Are won by virtue, wit, and parts: 
Nor are the men of sense to blame,
For breasts incapable of flame;
The faults must on the nymphs be placed
Grown so corrupted in their taste. 
  The pleader having spoke his best,
Had witness ready to attest,
Who fairly could on oath depose,
When questions on the fact arose,
That every article was true;
Nor further those deponents knew: 
Therefore he humbly would insist,
The bill might be with costs dismiss’d. 
The cause appear’d of so much weight,
That Venus, from her judgment seat,
Desired them not to talk so loud,
Else she must interpose a cloud: 
For if the heavenly folks should know
These pleadings in the courts below,
That mortals here disdain to love,
She ne’er could show her face above;
For gods, their betters, are too wise
To value that which men despise. 
And then, said she, my son and I
Must stroll in air, ’twixt land and sky;
Or else, shut out from heaven and earth,
Fly to the sea, my place of birth: 
There live with daggled mermaids pent,
And keep on fish perpetual Lent. 
  But since the case appear’d so nice,
She thought it best to take advice. 
The Muses, by the king’s permission,
Though foes to love, attend the session,
And on the right hand took their places
In order; on the left, the Graces: 
To whom she might her doubts propose
On all emergencies that rose. 
The Muses oft were seen to frown;
The Graces half ashamed look’d down;
And ’twas observed, there were but few
Of either sex among the crew,
Whom she or her assessors knew. 
The goddess soon began to see,
Things were not ripe for a decree;
And said, she must consult her books,
The lovers’ Fletas, Bractons, Cokes. 
First to a dapper clerk she beckon’d
To turn to Ovid, book the second: 
She then referr’d them to a place
In Virgil, vide Dido’s case: 
As for Tibullus’s reports,
They never pass’d for law in courts: 
For Cowley’s briefs, and pleas of Waller,
Still their authority was smaller. 
  There was on both sides much to say: 
She’d hear the cause another day;
And so she did; and then a third;
She heard it ­there she kept her word: 
But, with rejoinders or replies,
Long bills, and answers stuff’d with lies,
Demur, imparlance, and essoign,
The parties ne’er could issue join: 
For sixteen years the cause was spun,
And then stood where it first begun. 
  Now, gentle Clio, sing, or say
What Venus meant by this delay? 
The goddess much perplex’d in mind
To see her empire thus declined,
When first this grand debate arose,
Above her wisdom to compose,
Conceived a project in her head
To work her ends; which, if it sped,
Would show the merits of the cause
Far better than consulting laws. 
  In a glad hour Lucina’s aid
Produced on earth a wondrous maid,
On whom the Queen of Love was bent
To try a new experiment. 
She threw her law-books on the shelf,
And thus debated with herself. 
  Since men allege, they ne’er can find
Those beauties in a female mind,
Which raise a flame that will endure
For ever uncorrupt and pure;
If ’tis with reason they complain,
This infant shall restore my reign. 
I’ll search where every virtue dwells,
From courts inclusive down to cells: 
What preachers talk, or sages write;
These will I gather and unite,
And represent them to mankind
Collected in that infant’s mind. 
  This said, she plucks in Heaven’s high bowers
A sprig of amaranthine flowers. 
In nectar thrice infuses bays,
Three times refined in Titan’s rays;
Then calls the Graces to her aid,
And sprinkles thrice the newborn maid: 
From whence the tender skin assumes
A sweetness above all perfumes: 
From whence a cleanliness remains,
Incapable of outward stains: 
From whence that decency of mind,
So lovely in the female kind,
Where not one careless thought intrudes;
Less modest than the speech of prudes;
Where never blush was call’d in aid,
That spurious virtue in a maid,
A virtue but at second-hand;
They blush because they understand. 
  The Graces next would act their part,
And show’d but little of their art;
Their work was half already done,
The child with native beauty shone;
The outward form no help required: 
Each, breathing on her thrice, inspired
That gentle, soft, engaging air,
Which in old times adorn’d the fair: 
And said, “Vanessa be the name
By which thou shall be known to fame: 
Vanessa, by the gods enroll’d: 
Her name on earth shall not be told.” 
  But still the work was not complete;
When Venus thought on a deceit. 
Drawn by her doves, away she flies,
And finds out Pallas in the skies. 
Dear Pallas, I have been this morn
To see a lovely infant born: 
A boy in yonder isle below,
So like my own without his bow,
By beauty could your heart be won,
You’d swear it is Apollo’s son;
But it shall ne’er be said, a child
So hopeful, has by me been spoil’d: 
I have enough besides to spare,
And give him wholly to your care. 
  Wisdom’s above suspecting wiles;
The Queen of Learning gravely smiles,
Down from Olympus comes with joy,
Mistakes Vanessa for a boy;
Then sows within her tender mind
Seeds long unknown to womankind: 
For manly bosoms chiefly fit,
The seeds of knowledge, judgment, wit. 
Her soul was suddenly endued
With justice, truth, and fortitude;
With honour, which no breath can stain,
Which malice must attack in vain;
With open heart and bounteous hand. 
But Pallas here was at a stand;
She knew, in our degenerate days,
Bare virtue could not live on praise;
That meat must be with money bought: 
She therefore, upon second thought,
Infused, yet as it were by stealth,
Some small regard for state and wealth;
Of which, as she grew up, there staid
A tincture in the prudent maid: 
She managed her estate with care,
Yet liked three footmen to her chair. 
But, lest he should neglect his studies
Like a young heir, the thrifty goddess
(For fear young master should be spoil’d)
Would use him like a younger child;
And, after long computing, found
’Twould come to just five thousand pound. 
  The Queen of Love was pleased, and proud,
To see Vanessa thus endow’d: 
She doubted not but such a dame
Through every breast would dart a flame,
That every rich and lordly swain
With pride would drag about her chain;
That scholars would forsake their books,
To study bright Vanessa’s looks;
As she advanced, that womankind
Would by her model form their mind,
And all their conduct would be tried
By her, as an unerring guide;
Offending daughters oft would hear
Vanessa’s praise rung in their ear: 
Miss Betty, when she does a fault,
Lets fall her knife, or spills the salt,
Will thus be by her mother chid,
“’Tis what Vanessa never did!”
Thus by the nymphs and swains adored,
My power shall be again restored,
And happy lovers bless my reign ­
So Venus hoped, but hoped in vain. 
  For when in time the Martial Maid
Found out the trick that Venus play’d,
She shakes her helm, she knits her brows,
And, fired with indignation, vows,
To-morrow, ere the setting sun,
She’d all undo that she had done. 
  But in the poets we may find
A wholesome law, time out of mind,
Had been confirm’d by Fate’s decree,
That gods, of whatsoe’er degree,
Resume not what themselves have given,
Or any brother god in Heaven: 
Which keeps the peace among the gods,
Or they must always be at odds: 
And Pallas, if she broke the laws,
Must yield her foe the stronger cause;
A shame to one so much adored
For wisdom at Jove’s council-board. 
Besides, she fear’d the Queen of Love
Would meet with better friends above. 
And though she must with grief reflect,
To see a mortal virgin deck’d
With graces hitherto unknown
To female breasts, except her own: 
Yet she would act as best became
A goddess of unspotted fame. 
She knew, by augury divine,
Venus would fail in her design: 
She studied well the point, and found
Her foe’s conclusions were not sound,
From premises erroneous brought,
And therefore the deduction’s naught,
And must have contrary effects,
To what her treacherous foe expects. 
  In proper season Pallas meets
The Queen of Love, whom thus she greets,
(For gods, we are by Homer told,
Can in celestial language scold:) ­
Perfidious goddess! but in vain
You form’d this project in your brain;
A project for your talents fit,
With much deceit and little wit. 
Thou hast, as thou shall quickly see,
Deceived thyself, instead of me;
For how can heavenly wisdom prove
An instrument to earthly love? 
Know’st thou not yet, that men commence
Thy votaries for want of sense? 
Nor shall Vanessa be the theme
To manage thy abortive scheme: 
She’ll prove the greatest of thy foes;
And yet I scorn to interpose,
But, using neither skill nor force,
Leave all things to their natural course. 
  The goddess thus pronounced her doom: 
When, lo!  Vanessa in her bloom
Advanced, like Atalanta’s star,
But rarely seen, and seen from far: 
In a new world with caution slept,
Watch’d all the company she kept,
Well knowing, from the books she read,
What dangerous paths young virgins tread: 
Would seldom at the Park appear,
Nor saw the play-house twice a year;
Yet, not incurious, was inclined
To know the converse of mankind. 
  First issued from perfumers’ shops,
A crowd of fashionable fops: 
They ask’d her how she liked the play;
Then told the tattle of the day;
A duel fought last night at two,
About a lady ­you know who;
Mention’d a new Italian, come
Either from Muscovy or Rome;
Gave hints of who and who’s together;
Then fell to talking of the weather;
Last night was so extremely fine,
The ladies walk’d till after nine: 
Then, in soft voice and speech absurd,
With nonsense every second word,
With fustian from exploded plays,
They celebrate her beauty’s praise;
Run o’er their cant of stupid lies,
And tell the murders of her eyes. 
  With silent scorn Vanessa sat,
Scarce listening to their idle chat;
Farther than sometimes by a frown,
When they grew pert, to pull them down. 
At last she spitefully was bent
To try their wisdom’s full extent;
And said, she valued nothing less
Than titles, figure, shape, and dress;
That merit should be chiefly placed
In judgment, knowledge, wit, and taste;
And these, she offer’d to dispute,
Alone distinguish’d man from brute: 
That present times have no pretence
To virtue, in the noble sense
By Greeks and Romans understood,
To perish for our country’s good. 
She named the ancient heroes round,
Explain’d for what they were renown’d;
Then spoke with censure or applause
Of foreign customs, rites, and laws;
Through nature and through art she ranged
And gracefully her subject changed;
In vain! her hearers had no share
In all she spoke, except to stare. 
Their judgment was, upon the whole,
­That lady is the dullest soul! ­
Then tapt their forehead in a jeer,
As who should say ­She wants it here! 
She may be handsome, young, and rich,
But none will burn her for a witch! 
  A party next of glittering dames,
From round the purlieus of St. James,
Came early, out of pure good will,
To see the girl in dishabille. 
Their clamour, ’lighting from their chairs
Grew louder all the way up stairs;
At entrance loudest, where they found
The room with volumes litter’d round. 
Vanessa held Montaigne, and read,
While Mrs. Susan comb’d her head. 
They call’d for tea and chocolate,
And fell into their usual chat,
Discoursing with important face,
On ribbons, fans, and gloves, and lace;
Show’d patterns just from India brought,
And gravely ask’d her what she thought,
Whether the red or green were best,
And what they cost?  Vanessa guess’d
As came into her fancy first;
Named half the rates, and liked the worst. 
To scandal next ­What awkward thing
Was that last Sunday in the ring? 
I’m sorry Mopsa breaks so fast: 
I said her face would never last. 
Corinna, with that youthful air,
Is thirty, and a bit to spare: 
Her fondness for a certain earl
Began when I was but a girl! 
Phillis, who but a month ago
Was married to the Tunbridge beau,
I saw coquetting t’other night
In public with that odious knight! 
  They rallied next Vanessa’s dress: 
That gown was made for old Queen Bess. 
Dear madam, let me see your head: 
Don’t you intend to put on red? 
A petticoat without a hoop! 
Sure, you are not ashamed to stoop! 
With handsome garters at your knees,
No matter what a fellow sees. 
  Filled with disdain, with rage inflamed
Both of herself and sex ashamed,
The nymph stood silent out of spite,
Nor would vouchsafe to set them right. 
Away the fair detractors went,
And gave by turns their censures vent. 
She’s not so handsome in my eyes: 
For wit, I wonder where it lies! 
She’s fair and clean, and that’s the most: 
But why proclaim her for a toast? 
A baby face; no life, no airs,
But what she learn’d at country fairs;
Scarce knows what difference is between
Rich Flanders lace and Colberteen.
I’ll undertake, my little Nancy
In flounces has a better fancy;
With all her wit, I would not ask
Her judgment how to buy a mask. 
We begg’d her but to patch her face,
She never hit one proper place;
Which every girl at five years old
Can do as soon as she is told. 
I own, that out-of-fashion stuff
Becomes the creature well enough. 
The girl might pass, if we could get her
To know the world a little better. 
(To know the world! a modern phrase
For visits, ombre, balls, and plays.)
  Thus, to the world’s perpetual shame,
The Queen of Beauty lost her aim;
Too late with grief she understood
Pallas had done more harm than good;
For great examples are but vain,
Where ignorance begets disdain. 
Both sexes, arm’d with guilt and spite,
Against Vanessa’s power unite: 
To copy her few nymphs aspired;
Her virtues fewer swains admired. 
So stars, beyond a certain height,
Give mortals neither heat nor light. 
Yet some of either sex, endow’d
With gifts superior to the crowd,
With virtue, knowledge, taste, and wit
She condescended to admit: 
With pleasing arts she could reduce
Men’s talents to their proper use;
And with address each genius held
To that wherein it most excell’d;
Thus, making others’ wisdom known,
Could please them, and improve her own. 
A modest youth said something new;
She placed it in the strongest view. 
All humble worth she strove to raise,
Would not be praised, yet loved to praise. 
The learned met with free approach,
Although they came not in a coach: 
Some clergy too she would allow,
Nor quarrell’d at their awkward bow;
But this was for Cadenus’ sake,
A gownman of a different make;
Whom Pallas once, Vanessa’s tutor,
Had fix’d on for her coadjutor. 
  But Cupid, full of mischief, longs
To vindicate his mother’s wrongs. 
On Pallas all attempts are vain: 
One way he knows to give her pain;
Vows on Vanessa’s heart to take
Due vengeance, for her patron’s sake;
Those early seeds by Venus sown,
In spite of Pallas now were grown;
And Cupid hoped they would improve
By time, and ripen into love. 
The boy made use of all his craft,
In vain discharging many a shaft,
Pointed at colonels, lords, and beaux: 
Cadenus warded off the blows;
For, placing still some book betwixt,
The darts were in the cover fix’d,
Or, often blunted and recoil’d,
On Plutarch’s Moral struck, were spoil’d. 
  The Queen of Wisdom could foresee,
But not prevent, the Fates’ decree: 
And human caution tries in vain
To break that adamantine chain. 
Vanessa, though by Pallas taught,
By Love invulnerable thought,
Searching in books for wisdom’s aid,
Was, in the very search, betray’d. 
  Cupid, though all his darts were lost,
Yet still resolved to spare no cost: 
He could not answer to his fame
The triumphs of that stubborn dame,
A nymph so hard to be subdued,
Who neither was coquette nor prude. 
I find, said he, she wants a doctor,
Both to adore her, and instruct her: 
I’ll give her what she most admires
Among those venerable sires. 
Cadenus is a subject fit,
Grown old in politics and wit,
Caress’d by ministers of state,
Of half mankind the dread and hate. 
Whate’er vexations love attend,
She needs no rivals apprehend. 
Her sex, with universal voice,
Must laugh at her capricious choice. 
  Cadenus many things had writ: 
Vanessa much esteem’d his wit,
And call’d for his poetic works: 
Meantime the boy in secret lurks;
And, while the book was in her hand,
The urchin from his private stand
Took aim, and shot with all his strength
A dart of such prodigious length,
It pierced the feeble volume through,
And deep transfix’d her bosom too. 
Some lines, more moving than the rest,
Stuck to the point that pierced her breast,
And, borne directly to the heart,
With pains unknown increased her smart. 
  Vanessa, not in years a score,
Dreams of a gown of forty-four;
Imaginary charms can find
In eyes with reading almost blind: 
Cadenus now no more appears
Declined in health, advanced in years. 
She fancies music in his tongue;
Nor farther looks, but thinks him young. 
What mariner is not afraid
To venture in a ship decay’d? 
What planter will attempt to yoke
A sapling with a falling oak? 
As years increase, she brighter shines;
Cadenus with each day declines: 
And he must fall a prey to time,
While she continues in her prime. 
Cadenus, common forms apart,
In every scene had kept his heart;
Had sigh’d and languish’d, vow’d and writ,
For pastime, or to show his wit,
But books, and time, and state affairs,
Had spoil’d his fashionable airs: 
He now could praise, esteem, approve,
But understood not what was love. 
His conduct might have made him styled
A father, and the nymph his child. 
That innocent delight he took
To see the virgin mind her book,
Was but the master’s secret joy
In school to hear the finest boy. 
Her knowledge with her fancy grew;
She hourly press’d for something new;
Ideas came into her mind
So fast, his lessons lagg’d behind;
She reason’d, without plodding long,
Nor ever gave her judgment wrong. 
But now a sudden change was wrought;
She minds no longer what he taught. 
Cadenus was amazed to find
Such marks of a distracted mind: 
For, though she seem’d to listen more
To all he spoke, than e’er before,
He found her thoughts would absent range,
Yet guess’d not whence could spring the change. 
And first he modestly conjectures
His pupil might be tired with lectures;
Which help’d to mortify his pride,
Yet gave him not the heart to chide: 
But, in a mild dejected strain,
At last he ventured to complain: 
Said, she should be no longer teazed,
Might have her freedom when she pleased;
Was now convinced he acted wrong
To hide her from the world so long,
And in dull studies to engage
One of her tender sex and age;
That every nymph with envy own’d,
How she might shine in the grand monde: 
And every shepherd was undone
To see her cloister’d like a nun. 
This was a visionary scheme: 
He waked, and found it but a dream;
A project far above his skill: 
For nature must be nature still. 
If he were bolder than became
A scholar to a courtly dame,
She might excuse a man of letters;
Thus tutors often treat their better;
And, since his talk offensive grew,
He came to take his last adieu. 
  Vanessa, fill’d with just disdain,
Would still her dignity maintain,
Instructed from her early years
To scorn the art of female tears. 
  Had he employ’d his time so long
To teach her what was right and wrong;
Yet could such notions entertain
That all his lectures were in vain? 
She own’d the wandering of her thoughts;
But he must answer for her faults. 
She well remember’d to her cost,
That all his lessons were not lost. 
Two maxims she could still produce,
And sad experience taught their use;
That virtue, pleased by being shown,
Knows nothing which it dares not own;
Can make us without fear disclose
Our inmost secrets to our foes;
That common forms were not design’d
Directors to a noble mind. 
Now, said the nymph, to let you see
My actions with your rules agree;
That I can vulgar forms despise,
And have no secrets to disguise;
I knew, by what you said and writ,
How dangerous things were men of wit;
You caution’d me against their charms,
But never gave me equal arms;
Your lessons found the weakest part,
Aim’d at the head, but reach’d the heart. 
  Cadenus felt within him rise
Shame, disappointment, guilt, surprise. 
He knew not how to reconcile
Such language with her usual style: 
And yet her words were so exprest,
He could not hope she spoke in jest. 
His thoughts had wholly been confined
To form and cultivate her mind. 
He hardly knew, till he was told,
Whether the nymph were young or old;
Had met her in a public place,
Without distinguishing her face;
Much less could his declining age
Vanessa’s earliest thoughts engage;
And, if her youth indifference met,
His person must contempt beget;
Or grant her passion be sincere,
How shall his innocence be clear?
Appearances were all so strong,
The world must think him in the wrong;
Would say, he made a treacherous use
Of wit, to flatter and seduce;
The town would swear, he had betray’d
By magic spells the harmless maid: 
And every beau would have his joke,
That scholars were like other folk;
And, when Platonic flights were over,
The tutor turn’d a mortal lover! 
So tender of the young and fair! 
It show’d a true paternal care ­
Five thousand guineas in her purse! 
The doctor might have fancied worse. ­
  Hardly at length he silence broke,
And falter’d every word he spoke;
Interpreting her complaisance,
Just as a man sans consequence. 
She rallied well, he always knew: 
Her manner now was something new;
And what she spoke was in an air
As serious as a tragic player. 
But those who aim at ridicule
Should fix upon some certain rule,
Which fairly hints they are in jest,
Else he must enter his protest: 
For let a man be ne’er so wise,
He may be caught with sober lies;
A science which he never taught,
And, to be free, was dearly bought;
For, take it in its proper light,
’Tis just what coxcombs call a bite. 
  But, not to dwell on things minute,
Vanessa finish’d the dispute;
Brought weighty arguments to prove
That reason was her guide in love. 
She thought he had himself described,
His doctrines when she first imbibed;
What he had planted, now was grown;
His virtues she might call her own;
As he approves, as he dislikes,
Love or contempt her fancy strikes. 
Self-love, in nature rooted fast,
Attends us first, and leaves us last;
Why she likes him, admire not at her;
She loves herself, and that’s the matter. 
How was her tutor wont to praise
The geniuses of ancient days! 
(Those authors he so oft had named,
For learning, wit, and wisdom, famed;)
Was struck with love, esteem, and awe,
For persons whom he never saw. 
Suppose Cadenus flourish’d then,
He must adore such godlike men. 
If one short volume could comprise
All that was witty, learn’d, and wise,
How would it be esteem’d and read,
Although the writer long were dead! 
If such an author were alive,
How all would for his friendship strive,
And come in crowds to see his face! 
And this she takes to be her case. 
Cadenus answers every end,
The book, the author, and the friend;
The utmost her desires will reach,
Is but to learn what he can teach: 
His converse is a system fit
Alone to fill up all her wit;
While every passion of her mind
In him is centred and confined. 
  Love can with speech inspire a mute,
And taught Vanessa to dispute. 
This topic, never touch’d before,
Display’d her eloquence the more: 
Her knowledge, with such pains acquired,
By this new passion grew inspired;
Through this she made all objects pass,
Which gave a tincture o’er the mass;
As rivers, though they bend and twine,
Still to the sea their course incline: 
Or, as philosophers, who find
Some favourite system to their mind;
In every point to make it fit,
Will force all nature to submit. 
  Cadenus, who could ne’er suspect
His lessons would have such effect,
Or be so artfully applied,
Insensibly came on her side. 
It was an unforeseen event;
Things took a turn he never meant. 
Whoe’er excels in what we prize,
Appears a hero in our eyes;
Each girl, when pleased with what is taught,
Will have the teacher in her thought. 
When miss delights in her spinet,
A fiddler may a fortune get;
A blockhead, with melodious voice,
In boarding-schools may have his choice: 
And oft the dancing-master’s art
Climbs from the toe to touch the heart. 
In learning let a nymph delight,
The pedant gets a mistress by’t. 
Cadenus, to his grief and shame,
Could scarce oppose Vanessa’s flame;
And, though her arguments were strong,
At least could hardly wish them wrong. 
Howe’er it came, he could not tell,
But sure she never talk’d so well. 
His pride began to interpose;
Preferr’d before a crowd of beaux! 
So bright a nymph to come unsought! 
Such wonder by his merit wrought! 
’Tis merit must with her prevail! 
He never knew her judgment fail! 
She noted all she ever read! 
And had a most discerning head! 
  ’Tis an old maxim in the schools,
That flattery’s the food of fools;
Yet now and then your men of wit
Will condescend to take a bit. 
  So when Cadenus could not hide,
He chose to justify his pride;
Construing the passion she had shown,
Much to her praise, more to his own. 
Nature in him had merit placed,
In her a most judicious taste. 
Love, hitherto a transient guest,
Ne’er held possession of his breast;
So long attending at the gate,
Disdain’d to enter in so late. 
Love why do we one passion call,
When ’tis a compound of them all? 
Where hot and cold, where sharp and sweet,
In all their équipages meet;
Where pleasures mix’d with pains appear,
Sorrow with joy, and hope with fear;
Wherein his dignity and age
Forbid Cadenus to engage. 
But friendship, in its greatest height,
A constant, rational delight,
On virtue’s basis fix’d to last,
When love allurements long are past,
Which gently warms, but cannot burn,
He gladly offers in return;
His want of passion will redeem
With gratitude, respect, esteem: 
With what devotion we bestow,
When goddesses appear below. 
  While thus Cadenus entertains
Vanessa in exalted strains,
The nymph in sober words entreats
A truce with all sublime conceits;
For why such raptures, flights, and fancies,
To her who durst not read romances? 
In lofty style to make replies,
Which he had taught her to despise? 
But when her tutor will affect
Devotion, duty, and respect,
He fairly abdicates the throne: 
The government is now her own;
He has a forfeiture incurr’d;
She vows to take him at his word,
And hopes he will not think it strange
If both should now their stations change,
The nymph will have her turn to be
The tutor; and the pupil, he;
Though she already can discern
Her scholar is not apt to learn;
Or wants capacity to reach
The science she designs to teach;
Wherein his genius was below
The skill of every common beau,
Who, though he cannot spell, is wise
Enough to read a lady’s eyes,
And will each accidental glance
Interpret for a kind advance. 
  But what success Vanessa met,
Is to the world a secret yet. 
Whether the nymph, to please her swain,
Talks in a high romantic strain;
Or whether he at last descends
To act with less seraphic ends;
Or to compound the business, whether
They temper love and books together;
Must never to mankind be told,
Nor shall the conscious Muse unfold. 
  Meantime the mournful Queen of Love
Led but a weary life above. 
She ventures now to leave the skies,
Grown by Vanessa’s conduct wise: 
For though by one perverse event
Pallas had cross’d her first intent;
Though her design was not obtain’d: 
Yet had she much experience gain’d,
And, by the project vainly tried,
Could better now the cause decide. 
She gave due notice, that both parties,
Coram Regina, prox’ die Martis,
Should at their peril, without fail,
Come and appear, and save their bail. 
All met; and, silence thrice proclaimed,
One lawyer to each side was named. 
The judge discover’d in her face
Resentments for her late disgrace;
And full of anger, shame, and grief,
Directed them to mind their brief;
Nor spend their time to show their reading: 
She’d have a summary proceeding. 
She gather’d under every head
The sum of what each lawyer said,
Gave her own reasons last, and then
Decreed the cause against the men. 
  But in a weighty case like this,
To show she did not judge amiss,
Which evil tongues might else report,
She made a speech in open court;
Wherein she grievously complains,
“How she was cheated by the swains;
On whose petition (humbly showing,
That women were not worth the wooing,
And that, unless the sex would mend,
The race of lovers soon must end) ­
She was at Lord knows what expense
To form a nymph of wit and sense,
A model for her sex design’d,
Who never could one lover find. 
She saw her favour was misplaced;
The fellows had a wretched taste;
She needs must tell them to their face,
They were a stupid, senseless race;
And, were she to begin again,
She’d study to reform the men;
Or add some grains of folly more
To women, than they had before,
To put them on an equal foot;
And this, or nothing else, would do’t. 
This might their mutual fancy strike;
Since every being loves its like. 
  “But now, repenting what was done,
She left all business to her son;
She put the world in his possession,
And let him use it at discretion.” 
  The crier was order’d to dismiss
The court, who made his last “O yes!”
The goddess would no longer wait;
But, rising from her chair of state,
Left all below at six and seven,
Harness’d her doves, and flew to Heaven.

To love.

In all I wish, how happy should I be,
Thou grand Deluder, were it not for thee! 
So weak thou art, that fools thy power despise;
And yet so strong, thou triumph’st o’er the wise. 
Thy traps are laid with such peculiar art,
They catch the cautious, let the rash depart. 
Most nets are fill’d by want of thought and care
But too much thinking brings us to thy snare;
Where, held by thee, in slavery we stay,
And throw the pleasing part of life away. 
But, what does most my indignation move,
Discretion! thou wert ne’er a friend to Love: 
Thy chief delight is to defeat those arts,
By which he kindles mutual flames in hearts;
While the blind loitering God is at his play,
Thou steal’st his golden pointed darts away: 
Those darts which never fail; and in their stead
Convey’st malignant arrows tipt with lead: 
The heedless God, suspecting no deceits,
Shoots on, and thinks he has done wondrous feats;
But the poor nymph, who feels her vitals burn,
And from her shepherd can find no return,
Laments, and rages at the power divine,
When, curst Discretion! all the fault was thine: 
Cupid and Hymen thou hast set at odds,
And bred such feuds between those kindred gods,
That Venus cannot reconcile her sons;
When one appears, away the other runs. 
The former scales, wherein he used to poise
Love against love, and equal joys with joys,
Are now fill’d up with avarice and pride,
Where titles, power, and riches, still subside. 
Then, gentle Venus, to thy father run,
And tell him, how thy children are undone: 
Prepare his bolts to give one fatal blow,
And strike Discretion to the shades below.

A rebus.  By Vanessa.

Cut the name of the man who his mistress denied,
And let the first of it be only applied
To join with the prophet who David did chide;
Then say what a horse is that runs very fast;
And that which deserves to be first put the last;
Spell all then, and put them together, to find
The name and the virtues of him I design’d. 
Like the patriarch in Egypt, he’s versed in the state;
Like the prophet in Jewry, he’s free with the great;
Like a racer he flies, to succour with speed,
When his friends want his aid, or desert is in need.

The dean’s answer.

The nymph who wrote this in an amorous fit,
I cannot but envy the pride of her wit,
Which thus she will venture profusely to throw
On so mean a design, and a subject so low. 
For mean’s her design, and her subject as mean,
The first but a rebus, the last but a dean. 
A dean’s but a parson:  and what is a rebus? 
A thing never known to the Muses or Phoebus. 
The corruption of verse; for, when all is done,
It is but a paraphrase made on a pun. 
But a genius like hers no subject can stifle,
It shows and discovers itself through a trifle. 
By reading this trifle, I quickly began
To find her a great wit, but the dean a small man. 
Rich ladies will furnish their garrets with stuff,
Which others for mantuas would think fine enough: 
So the wit that is lavishly thrown away here,
Might furnish a second-rate poet a year. 
Thus much for the verse, we proceed to the next,
Where the nymph has entirely forsaken her text: 
Her fine panegyrics are quite out of season: 
And what she describes to be merit, is treason: 
The changes which faction has made in the state,
Have put the dean’s politics quite out of date: 
Now no one regards what he utters with freedom,
And, should he write pamphlets, no great man would read ’em;
And, should want or desert stand in need of his aid,
This racer would prove but a dull founder’d jade.

Stella’s birth-day march 13, 1718-19.

Stella this day is thirty-four,
(We shan’t dispute a year or more:)
However, Stella, be not troubled,
Although thy size and years are doubled
Since first I saw thee at sixteen,
The brightest virgin on the green;
So little is thy form declined;
Made up so largely in thy mind. 
  O, would it please the gods to split
Thy beauty, size, and years, and wit! 
No age could furnish out a pair
Of nymphs so graceful, wise, and fair;
With half the lustre of your eyes,
With half your wit, your years, and size. 
And then, before it grew too late,
How should I beg of gentle fate,
(That either nymph might have her swain,)
To split my worship too in twain.

Stella’s birth-day. 1719-20.

Written A.D. 1720-21. ­Stella.

All travellers at first incline
Where’er they see the fairest sign
And if they find the chambers neat,
And like the liquor and the meat,
Will call again, and recommend
The Angel Inn to every friend. 
And though the painting grows decay’d,
The house will never lose its trade: 
Nay, though the treach’rous tapster, Thomas,
Hangs a new Angel two doors from us,
As fine as daubers’ hands can make it,
In hopes that strangers may mistake it,
We think it both a shame and sin
To quit the true old Angel Inn. 
  Now this is Stella’s case in fact,
An angel’s face a little crack’d. 
(Could poets or could painters fix
How angels look at thirty-six:)
This drew us in at first to find
In such a form an angel’s mind;
And every virtue now supplies
The fainting rays of Stella’s eyes. 
See, at her levee crowding swains,
Whom Stella freely entertains
With breeding, humour, wit, and sense,
And puts them to so small expense;
Their minds so plentifully fills,
And makes such reasonable bills,
So little gets for what she gives,
We really wonder how she lives! 
And had her stock been less, 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? 
Nail’d to her window full in sight
All Christian people to invite. 
Or stop and light at Chloe’s head,
With scraps and leavings to be fed? 
  Then, Chloe, still go on to prate
Of thirty-six and thirty-eight;
Pursue your trade of scandal-picking,
Your hints that Stella is no chicken;
Your innuendoes, when you tell us,
That Stella loves to talk with fellows: 
But let me warn you to believe
A truth, for which your soul should grieve;
That should you live to see the day,
When Stella’s locks must all be gray,
When age must print a furrow’d trace
On every feature of her face;
Though you, and all your senseless 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 sense will pass your door,
And crowd to Stella’s at four-score.

To Stella, who collected and transcribed his poems.

1720.

As, when a lofty pile is raised,
We never hear the workmen praised,
Who bring the lime, or place the stones. 
But all admire Inigo Jones: 
So, if this pile of scatter’d rhymes
Should be approved in aftertimes;
If it both pleases and endures,
The merit and the praise are yours. 
  Thou, Stella, wert no longer young,
When first for thee my harp was strung,
Without one word of Cupid’s darts,
Of killing eyes, or bleeding hearts;
With friendship and esteem possest,
I ne’er admitted Love a guest. 
  In all the habitudes of life,
The friend, the mistress, and the wife,
Variety we still pursue,
In pleasure seek for something new;
Or else, comparing with the rest,
Take comfort that our own is best;
The best we value by the worst,
As tradesmen show their trash at first;
But his pursuits are at an end,
Whom Stella chooses for a friend. 
A poet starving in a garret,
Conning all topics like a parrot,
Invokes his mistress and his Muse,
And stays at home for want of shoes: 
Should but his Muse descending drop
A slice of bread and mutton-chop;
Or kindly, when his credit’s out,
Surprise him with a pint of stout;
Or patch his broken stocking soles;
Or send 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, should a porter make inquiries
For Chloe, Sylvia, Phillis, Iris;
Be told the lodging, lane, and sign,
The bowers that hold those 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 goddesses enroll’d
In Curll’s collection, new and old,
Whose scoundrel fathers would not know ’em,
If they should meet them in a poem. 
  True poets can depress and raise,
Are lords of infamy and praise;
They are not scurrilous in satire,
Nor will in panegyric flatter. 
Unjustly poets we asperse;
Truth shines the brighter clad in verse,
And all the fictions they pursue
Do but insinuate what is true. 
  Now, should my praises owe their truth
To beauty, dress, or paint, or youth,
What stoics call without our power,
They could not be ensured an hour;
’Twere grafting on an annual stock,
That must our expectation mock,
And, making one luxuriant shoot,
Die the next year for want of root: 
Before I could my verses bring,
Perhaps you’re quite another thing. 
  So Maevius, when he drain’d his skull
To celebrate some suburb trull,
His similes in order set,
And every crambo he could get;
Had gone through all the common-places
Worn out by wits, who rhyme on faces;
Before he could his poem close,
The lovely nymph had lost her nose. 
  Your virtues safely I commend;
They on no accidents depend: 
Let malice look with all her eyes,
She dares not say the poet lies. 
  Stella, when you these lines transcribe,
Lest you should take them for a bribe,
Resolved to mortify your pride,
I’ll here expose your weaker side. 
  Your spirits kindle to a flame,
Moved by the lightest touch of blame;
And when a friend in kindness tries
To show 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 suspended wait,
Till time has open’d reason’s gate;
And, what is worse, your passion bends
Its force against your nearest friends,
Which manners, decency, and pride,
Have taught from you the world to hide;
In vain; for see, your friend has brought
To public light your only fault;
And yet a fault we often find
Mix’d in a noble, generous mind: 
And may compare to AEtna’s fire,
Which, though with trembling, all admire;
The heat that makes the summit glow,
Enriching all the vales below. 
Those who, in warmer climes, complain
From Phoebus’ rays they suffer pain,
Must own that pain is largely paid
By generous wines beneath a shade. 
  Yet, when I find your passions rise,
And anger sparkling in your eyes,
I grieve those spirits should be spent,
For nobler ends by nature meant. 
One passion, with a different turn,
Makes wit inflame, or anger burn: 
So the sun’s heat, with different powers,
Ripens the grape, the liquor sours: 
Thus Ajax, when with rage possest,
By Pallas breathed into his breast,
His valour would no more employ,
Which might alone have conquer’d Troy;
But, blinded by resentment, seeks
For vengeance on his friends the Greeks. 
  You think this turbulence of blood
From stagnating preserves the flood,
Which, thus fermenting by degrees,
Exalts the spirits, sinks the lees. 
Stella, for once you reason wrong;
For, should this ferment last too long,
By time subsiding, you may find
Nothing but acid left behind;
From passion you may then be freed,
When peevishness and spleen succeed. 
Say, Stella, when you copy next,
Will you keep strictly to the text? 
Dare you let these reproaches stand,
And to your failing set your hand? 
Or, if these lines your anger fire,
Shall they in baser flames expire? 
Whene’er they burn, if burn they must,
They’ll prove my accusation just.

To Stella visiting me in my sickness.

1720

Pallas, observing Stella’s wit
Was more than for her sex was fit,
And that her beauty, soon or late,
Might breed confusion in the state,
In high concern for human kind,
Fix’d honour in her infant mind. 
  But (not in wrangling to engage
With such a stupid, vicious age)
If honour I would here define,
It answers faith in things divine. 
As natural life the body warms,
And, scholars teach, the soul informs,
So honour animates the whole,
And is the spirit of the soul. 
  Those numerous virtues which the tribe
Of tedious moralists describe,
And by such various titles call,
True honour comprehends them all. 
Let melancholy rule supreme,
Choler preside, or blood, or phlegm,
It makes no difference in the case,
Nor is complexion honour’s place. 
  But, lest we should for honour take
The drunken quarrels of a rake: 
Or think it seated in a scar,
Or on a proud triumphal car;
Or in the payment of a debt
We lose with sharpers at piquet;
Or when a whore, in her vocation,
Keeps punctual to an assignation;
Or that on which his lordship swears,
When vulgar knaves would lose their ears;
Let Stella’s fair example preach
A lesson she alone can teach. 
  In points of honour to be tried,
All passions must be laid aside: 
Ask no advice, but think alone;
Suppose the question not your own. 
How shall I act, is not the case;
But how would Brutus in my place? 
In such a case would Cato bleed? 
And how would Socrates proceed? 
  Drive all objections from your mind,
Else you relapse to human kind: 
Ambition, avarice, and lust,
A factious rage, and breach of trust,
And flattery tipt with nauseous fleer,
And guilty shame, and servile fear,
Envy, and cruelty, and pride,
Will in your tainted heart preside. 
  Heroes and heroines of old,
By honour only were enroll’d
Among their brethren in the skies,
To which (though late) shall Stella rise. 
Ten thousand oaths upon record
Are not so sacred as her word: 
The world shall in its atoms end,
Ere Stella can deceive a friend. 
By honour seated in her breast
She still determines what is best: 
What indignation in her mind
Against enslavers of mankind! 
Base kings, and ministers of state,
Eternal objects of her hate! 
She thinks that nature ne’er design’d
Courage to man alone confined. 
Can cowardice her sex adorn,
Which most exposes ours to scorn? 
She wonders where the charm appears
In Florimel’s affected fears;
For Stella never learn’d the art
At proper times to scream and start;
Nor calls up all the house at night,
And swears she saw a thing in white. 
Doll never flies to cut her lace,
Or throw cold water in her face,
Because she heard a sudden drum,
Or found an earwig in a plum. 
  Her hearers are amazed from whence
Proceeds that fund of wit and sense;
Which, though her modesty would shroud,
Breaks like the sun behind a cloud;
While gracefulness its art conceals,
And yet through every motion steals. 
  Say, Stella, was Prometheus blind,
And, forming you, mistook your kind? 
No; ’twas for you alone he stole
The fire that forms a manly soul;
Then, to complete it every way,
He moulded it with female clay: 
To that you owe the nobler flame,
To this the beauty of your frame. 
  How would Ingratitude delight,
And how would Censure glut her spite,
If I should Stella’s kindness hide
In silence, or forget with pride! 
When on my sickly couch I lay,
Impatient both of night and day,
Lamenting in unmanly strains,
Call’d every power to ease my pains;
Then Stella ran to my relief,
With cheerful face and inward grief;
And, though by Heaven’s severe decree
She suffers hourly more than me,
No cruel master could require,
From slaves employ’d for daily hire,
What Stella, by her friendship warm’d
With vigour and delight perform’d: 
My sinking spirits now supplies
With cordials in her hands and eyes: 
Now with a soft and silent tread
Unheard she moves about my bed. 
I see her taste each nauseous draught,
And so obligingly am caught;
I bless the hand from whence they came,
Nor dare distort my face for shame. 
  Best pattern of true friends! beware;
You pay too dearly for your care,
If, while your tenderness secures
My life, it must endanger yours;
For such a fool was never found,
Who pull’d a palace to the ground,
Only to have the ruins made
Materials for a house decay’d.

Stella to Dr. Swift on his birth-day, Nov. 30, 1721.

St. Patrick’s Dean, your country’s pride,
My early and my only guide,
Let me among the rest attend,
Your pupil and your humble friend,
To celebrate in female strains
The day that paid your mother’s pains;
Descend to take that tribute due
In gratitude alone to you. 
  When men began to call me fair,
You interposed your timely care: 
You early taught me to despise
The ogling of a coxcomb’s eyes;
Show’d where my judgment was misplaced;
Refined my fancy and my taste. 
  Behold that beauty just decay’d,
Invoking art to nature’s aid: 
Forsook by her admiring train,
She spreads her tatter’d nets in vain;
Short was her part upon the stage;
Went smoothly on for half a page;
Her bloom was gone, she wanted art,
As the scene changed, to change her part;
She, whom no lover could resist,
Before the second act was hiss’d. 
Such is the fate of female race
With no endowments but a face;
Before the thirtieth year of life,
A maid forlorn, or hated wife. 
  Stella to you, her tutor, owes
That she has ne’er resembled those: 
Nor was a burden to mankind
With half her course of years behind. 
You taught how I might youth prolong,
By knowing what was right and wrong;
How from my heart to bring supplies
Of lustre to my fading eyes;
How soon a beauteous mind repairs
The loss of changed or falling hairs;
How wit and virtue from within
Send out a smoothness o’er the skin: 
Your lectures could my fancy fix,
And I can please at thirty-six. 
The sight of Chloe at fifteen,
Coquetting, gives not me the spleen;
The idol now of every fool
Till time shall make their passions cool;
Then tumbling down Time’s steepy hill,
While Stella holds her station still. 
O! turn your precepts into laws,
Redeem the women’s ruin’d cause,
Retrieve lost empire to our sex,
That men may bow their rebel necks. 
  Long be the day that gave you birth
Sacred to friendship, wit, and mirth;
Late dying may you cast a shred
Of your rich mantle o’er my head;
To bear with dignity my sorrow,
One day alone, then die to-morrow.

To Stella on her birth-day, 1721-2.

While, Stella, to your lasting praise
The Muse her annual tribute pays,
While I assign myself a task
Which you expect, but scorn to ask;
If I perform this task with pain,
Let me of partial fate complain;
You every year the debt enlarge,
I grow less equal to the charge: 
In you each virtue brighter shines,
But my poetic vein declines;
My harp will soon in vain be strung,
And all your virtues left unsung. 
For none among the upstart race
Of poets dare assume my place;
Your worth will be to them unknown,
They must have Stellas of their own;
And thus, my stock of wit decay’d,
I dying leave the debt unpaid,
Unless Delany, as my heir,
Will answer for the whole arrear.

On the great buried bottle. 
By Dr. Delany.

Amphora, quae moestum linquis, laetumque revises
  Arentem dominum, sit tibi terra levis. 
Tu quoque depositum serves, neve opprime, marmor;
  Amphora non meruit tam pretiosa mori.

Epitaph. 
By the same.

Hoc tumulata jacet proles Lenaea sepulchro,
Immortale genus, nee peritura jacet;
Quin oritura iterum, matris concreditur alvo: 
Bis natum referunt te quoque, Bacche Pater.

Stella’s birth-day: 
A great bottle of wine, long buried, being that day dug up. 1722-3.

Resolv’d my annual verse to pay,
By duty bound, on Stella’s day,
Furnish’d with paper, pens, and ink,
I gravely sat 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 usual pain,
A thought came slowly from my brain,
It cost me Lord knows how much time
To shape it into sense and rhyme: 
And, what was yet a greater curse,
Long thinking made my fancy worse. 
  Forsaken by th’inspiring Nine,
I waited at Apollo’s shrine: 
I told him what the world would say,
If Stella were unsung to-day: 
How I should hide my head for shame,
When both the Jacks and Robin came;
How Ford would frown, how Jim would leer,
How Sheridan the rogue would sneer,
And swear it does not always follow,
That semel’n anno ridet Apollo. 
I have assur’d them twenty times,
That Phoebus help’d me in my rhymes;
Phoebus inspired me from above,
And he and I were hand and glove. 
But, finding me so dull and dry since,
They’ll call it all poetic license;
And when I brag of aid divine,
Think Eusden’s right as good as mine. 
  Nor do I ask for Stella’s sake;
’Tis my own credit lies at stake: 
And Stella will be sung, while I
Can only be a stander by. 
  Apollo, having thought a little,
Return’d this answer to a tittle. 
  Though you should live like old Methusalem,
I furnish hints and you shall use all ’em,
You yearly sing as she grows old,
You’d leave her virtues half untold. 
But, to say truth, such dulness reigns,
Through the whole set of Irish deans,
I’m daily stunn’d with such a medley,
Dean White, Dean Daniel, and Dean Smedley,
That, let what dean soever come,
My orders are, I’m not at home;
And if your voice had not been loud,
You must have pass’d among the crowd. 
  But now, your danger to prevent,
You must apply to Mrs. Brent;
For she, as priestess, knows the rites
Wherein the god of earth delights. 
First, nine ways looking, let her stand
With an old poker in her hand;
Let her describe a circle round
In Saunders’ cellar on the ground: 
A spade let prudent Archy hold,
And with discretion dig the mould. 
Let Stella look with watchful eye,
Rebecca, Ford, and Grattans by. 
  Behold the bottle, where it lies
With neck elated toward the skies! 
The god of winds and god of fire
Did to its wondrous birth conspire;
And Bacchus for the poet’s use
Pour’d in a strong inspiring juice. 
See! as you raise it from its tomb,
It drags behind a spacious womb,
And in the spacious womb contains
A sov’reign med’cine for the brains. 
  You’ll find it soon, if fate consents;
If not, a thousand Mrs. Brents,
Ten thousand Archys, arm’d with spades,
May dig in vain to Pluto’s shades. 
  From thence a plenteous draught infuse,
And boldly then invoke the Muse;
But first let Robert on his knees
With caution drain it from the lees;
The Muse will at your call appear,
With Stella’s praise to crown the year.

Stella at wood park,
A house of Charles Ford, Esq., Near Dublin.
1723.

­cuicumque nocere volebat, Vestimenta dabat pretiosa.

Don Carlos, in a merry spight,
Did Stella to his house invite: 
He entertain’d her half a year
With generous wines and costly cheer. 
Don Carlos made her chief director,
That she might o’er the servants hector. 
In half a week the dame grew nice,
Got all things at the highest price: 
Now at the table head she sits,
Presented with the nicest bits: 
She look’d on partridges with scorn,
Except they tasted of the corn: 
A haunch of ven’son made her sweat,
Unless it had the right fumette. 
Don Carlos earnestly would beg,
“Dear Madam, try this pigeon’s leg;”
Was happy, when he could prevail
To make her only touch a quail. 
Through candle-light she view’d the wine,
To see that ev’ry glass was fine. 
At last, grown prouder than the devil
With feeding high, and treatment civil,
Don Carlos now began to find
His malice work as he design’d. 
The winter sky began to frown: 
Poor Stella must pack off to town;
From purling streams and fountains bubbling,
To Liffey’s stinking tide in Dublin: 
From wholesome exercise and air
To sossing in an easy-chair: 
From stomach sharp, and hearty feeding,
To piddle like a lady breeding: 
From ruling there the household singly. 
To be directed here by Dingley:
From every day a lordly banquet,
To half a joint, and God be thank it: 
From every meal Pontac in plenty,
To half a pint one day in twenty: 
From Ford attending at her call,
To visits of Archdeacon Wall: 
From Ford, who thinks of nothing mean,
To the poor doings of the Dean: 
From growing richer with good cheer,
To running out by starving here. 
  But now arrives the dismal day;
She must return to Ormond Quay.
The coachman stopt; she look’d, and swore
The rascal had mistook the door: 
At coming in, you saw her stoop;
The entry brush’d against her hoop: 
Each moment rising in her airs,
She curst the narrow winding stairs: 
Began a thousand faults to spy;
The ceiling hardly six feet high;
The smutty wainscot full of cracks: 
And half the chairs with broken backs: 
Her quarter’s out at Lady-day;
She vows she will no longer stay
In lodgings like a poor Grisette,
While there are houses to be let. 
  Howe’er, to keep her spirits up,
She sent for company to sup: 
When all the while you might remark,
She strove in vain to ape Wood Park. 
Two bottles call’d for, (half her store,
The cupboard could contain but four:)
A supper worthy of herself,
Five nothings in five plates of delf. 
  Thus for a week the farce went on;
When, all her country savings gone,
She fell into her former scene,
Small beer, a herring, and the Dean. 
  Thus far in jest:  though now, I fear,
You think my jesting too severe;
But poets, when a hint is new,
Regard not whether false or true: 
Yet raillery gives no offence,
Where truth has not the least pretence;
Nor can be more securely placed
Than on a nymph of Stella’s taste. 
I must confess your wine and vittle
I was too hard upon a little: 
Your table neat, your linen fine;
And, though in miniature, you shine: 
Yet, when you sigh to leave Wood Park,
The scene, the welcome, and the spark,
To languish in this odious town,
And pull your haughty stomach down,
We think you quite mistake the case,
The virtue lies not in the place: 
For though my raillery were true,
A cottage is Wood Park with you.

A new year’s gift for bec
1723-4.

Returning Janus now prepares,
For Bec, a new supply of cares,
Sent in a bag to Dr. Swift,
Who thus displays the new-year’s gift. 
  First, this large parcel brings you tidings
Of our good Dean’s eternal chidings;
Of Nelly’s pertness, Robin’s leasings,
And Sheridan’s perpetual teazings. 
This box is cramm’d on every side
With Stella’s magisterial pride. 
Behold a cage with sparrows fill’d,
First to be fondled, then be kill’d. 
Now to this hamper I invite you,
With six imagined cares to fright you. 
Here in this bundle Janus sends
Concerns by thousands for your friends. 
And here’s a pair of leathern pokes,
To hold your cares for other folks. 
Here from this barrel you may broach
A peck of troubles for a coach. 
This ball of wax your ears will darken,
Still to be curious, never hearken. 
Lest you the town may have less trouble in
Bring all your Quilca’s cares to Dublin,
For which he sends this empty sack;
And so take all upon your back.

Dingley and Brent. 
A song.

To the tune of “Ye Commons and Peers.”

      Dingley and Brent,
      Wherever they went,
Ne’er minded a word that was spoken;
      Whatever was said,
      They ne’er troubled their head,
But laugh’d at their own silly joking.

      Should Solomon wise
      In majesty rise,
And show them his wit and his learning;
      They never would hear,
      But turn the deaf ear,
As a matter they had no concern in.

      You tell a good jest,
      And please all the rest;
Comes Dingley, and asks you, what was it? 
      And, curious to know,
      Away she will go
To seek an old rag in the closet.

To Stella.

Written on the day of her birth, march 13, 1723-4,
but not on the subject, when I was sick in bed

Tormented with incessant pains,
Can I devise poetic strains? 
Time was, when I could yearly pay
My verse to Stella’s native day: 
But now unable grown to write,
I grieve she ever saw the light. 
Ungrateful! since to her I owe
That I these pains can undergo. 
She tends me like an humble slave;
And, when indecently I rave,
When out my brutish passions break,
With gall in every word I speak,
She with soft speech my anguish cheers,
Or melts my passions down with tears;
Although ’tis easy to descry
She wants assistance more than I;
Yet seems to feel my pains alone,
And is a stoic in her own. 
When, among scholars, can we find
So soft and yet so firm a mind? 
All accidents of life conspire
To raise up Stella’s virtue higher;
Or else to introduce the rest
Which had been latent in her breast. 
Her firmness who could e’er have known,
Had she not evils of her own? 
Her kindness who could ever guess,
Had not her friends been in distress? 
Whatever base returns you find
From me, dear Stella, still be kind. 
In your own heart you’ll reap the fruit,
Though I continue still a brute. 
But, when I once am out of pain,
I promise to be good again;
Meantime, your other juster friends
Shall for my follies make amends;
So may we long continue thus,
Admiring you, you pitying us.

Verses by Stella.

If it be true, celestial powers,
That you have form’d me fair,
And yet, in all my vainest hours,
My mind has been my care: 
Then, in return, I beg this grace,
As you were ever kind,
What envious Time takes from my face
Bestow upon my mind!

A receipt to restore Stella’s youth. 1724-5.

The Scottish hinds, too poor to house
In frosty nights their starving cows,
While not a blade of grass or hay
Appears from Michaelmas to May,
Must let their cattle range in vain
For food along the barren plain: 
Meagre and lank with fasting grown,
And nothing left but skin and bone;
Exposed to want, and wind, and weather,
They just keep life and soul together,
Till summer showers and evening’s dew
Again the verdant glebe renew;
And, as the vegetables rise,
The famish’d cow her want supplies;
Without an ounce of last year’s flesh;
Whate’er she gains is young and fresh;
Grows plump and round, and full of mettle,
As rising from Medea’s kettle. 
With youth and beauty to enchant
Europa’s counterfeit gallant. 
  Why, Stella, should you knit your brow,
If I compare you to a cow? 
’Tis just the case; for you have fasted
So long, till all your flesh is wasted;
And must against the warmer days
Be sent to Quilca down to graze;
Where mirth, and exercise, and air,
Will soon your appetite repair: 
The nutriment will from within,
Round all your body, plump your skin;
Will agitate the lazy flood,
And fill your veins with sprightly blood. 
Nor flesh nor blood will be the same
Nor aught of Stella but the name: 
For what was ever understood,
By human kind, but flesh and blood? 
And if your flesh and blood be new,
You’ll be no more the former you;
But for a blooming nymph will pass,
Just fifteen, coming summer’s grass,
Your jetty locks with garlands crown’d: 
While all the squires for nine miles round,
Attended by a brace of curs,
With jockey boots and silver spurs,
No less than justices o’ quorum,
Their cow-boys bearing cloaks before ’em,
Shall leave deciding broken pâtes,
To kiss your steps at Quilca gates. 
But, lest you should my skill disgrace,
Come back before you’re out of case;
For if to Michaelmas you stay,
The new-born flesh will melt away;
The ’squires in scorn will fly the house
For better game, and look for grouse;
But here, before the frost can mar it,
We’ll make it firm with beef and claret.

Stella’s birth-day. 1724-5.

As when a beauteous nymph decays,
We say she’s past her dancing days;
So poets lose their feet by time,
And can no longer dance in rhyme. 
Your annual bard had rather chose
To celebrate your birth in prose: 
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 disgrace,
Once more the Dean supplies their place. 
  Beauty and wit, too sad a truth! 
Have always been confined to youth;
The god of wit and beauty’s queen,
He twenty-one and she fifteen,
No poet ever sweetly sung,
Unless he were, like Phoebus, young;
Nor ever nymph inspired to rhyme,
Unless, like Venus, in her prime. 
At fifty-six, if this be true,
Am I a poet fit for you? 
Or, at the age of forty-three,
Are you a subject fit for me? 
Adieu! bright wit, and radiant eyes! 
You must be grave and I be wise. 
Our fate in vain we would oppose: 
But I’ll be still your friend in prose: 
Esteem and friendship to express,
Will not require poetic dress;
And if the Muse deny her aid
To have them sung, they may be said. 
  But, Stella, say, what evil tongue
Reports you are no longer young;
That Time sits with his scythe to mow
Where erst sat Cupid with his bow;
That half your locks are turn’d to gray? 
I’ll ne’er believe a word they say. 
’Tis true, but let it not be known,
My eyes are somewhat dimmish grown;
For nature, always in the right,
To your decays adapts my sight;
And wrinkles undistinguished pass,
For I’m ashamed to use a glass: 
And till I see them with these eyes,
Whoever says you have them, lies. 
  No length of time can make you quit
Honour and virtue, sense and wit;
Thus you may still be young to me,
While I can better hear than see. 
O ne’er may Fortune show her spite,
To make me deaf, and mend my sight!

BEC’S BIRTH-DAY. 
NO, 1726.

This day, dear Bec, is thy nativity;
Had Fate a luckier one, she’d give it ye. 
She chose a thread of greatest length,
And doubly twisted it for strength: 
Nor will be able with her shears
To cut it off these forty years. 
Then who says care will kill a cat? 
Rebecca shows they’re out in that. 
For she, though overrun with care,
Continues healthy, fat, and fair. 
  As, if the gout should seize the head,
Doctors pronounce the patient dead;
But, if they can, by all their arts,
Eject it to the extremest parts,
They give the sick man joy, and praise
The gout that will prolong his days. 
Rebecca thus I gladly greet,
Who drives her cares to hands and feet: 
For, though philosophers maintain
The limbs are guided by the brain,
Quite contrary Rebecca’s led;
Her hands and feet conduct her head;
By arbitrary power convey her,
She ne’er considers why or where: 
Her hands may meddle, feet may wander,
Her head is but a mere by-stander: 
And all her bustling but supplies
The part of wholesome exercise. 
Thus nature has resolved to pay her
The cat’s nine lives, and eke the care. 
  Long may she live, and help her friends
Whene’er it suits her private ends;
Domestic business never mind
Till coffee has her stomach lined;
But, when her breakfast gives her courage,
Then think on Stella’s chicken porridge: 
I mean when Tigerhas been served,
Or else poor Stella may be starved. 
  May Bec have many an evening nap,
With Tiger slabbering in her lap;
But always take a special care
She does not overset the chair;
Still be she curious, never hearken
To any speech but Tiger’s barking! 
  And when she’s in another scene,
Stella long dead, but first the Dean,
May fortune and her coffee get her
Companions that will please her better! 
Whole afternoons will sit beside her,
Nor for neglects or blunders chide her. 
A goodly set as can be found
Of hearty gossips prating round;
Fresh from a wedding or a christening,
To teach her ears the art of listening,
And please her more to hear them tattle,
Than the Dean storm, or Stella rattle. 
  Late be her death, one gentle nod,
When Hermes, waiting with his rod,
Shall to Elysian fields invite her,
Where there will be no cares to fright her!

ON THE COLLAR OF TIGER,

MRS. DINGLEY’S LAP-DOG.

Pray steal me not; I’m Mrs. Dingley’s,
Whose heart in this four-footed thing lies.

STELLA’S BIRTH-DAY.

MARCH 13, 1726-7.

This day, whate’er the Fates decree,
Shall still be kept with joy by me: 
This day then let us not be told,
That you are sick, and I grown old;
Nor think on our approaching ills,
And talk of spectacles and pills;
To-morrow will be time enough
To hear such mortifying stuff. 
Yet, since from reason may be brought
A better and more pleasing thought,
Which can, in spite of all decays,
Support a few remaining days;
From not the gravest of divines
Accept for once some serious lines. 
  Although we now can form no more
Long schemes of life, as heretofore;
Yet you, while time is running fast,
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 prosélytes for vice;
(The only comfort they propose,
To have companions in their woes;)
Grant this the case; yet sure ’tis hard
That virtue, styled its own reward,
And by all sages understood
To be the chief of human good,
Should acting die; nor leave behind
Some lasting pleasure in the mind,
Which, by remembrance, will assuage
Grief, sickness, poverty, and age;
And strongly shoot a radiant dart
To shine through life’s declining part. 
  Say, Stella, feel you no content,
Reflecting on a life well spent? 
Your skilful hand employ’d to save
Despairing wretches from the grave;
And then supporting with your store
Those whom you dragg’d from death before? 
So Providence on mortals waits,
Preserving what it first creates. 
Your generous boldness to defend
An innocent and absent friend;
That courage which can make you just
To merit humbled in the dust;
The detestation you express
For vice in all its glittering dress;
That patience under torturing pain,
Where stubborn stoics would complain: 
Must these like empty shadows pass,
Or forms reflected from a glass? 
Or mere chimeras in the mind,
That fly, and leave no marks behind? 
Does not the body thrive and grow
By food of twenty years ago? 
And, had it not been still supplied,
It must a thousand times have died. 
Then who with reason can maintain
That no effects of food remain? 
And is not virtue in mankind
The nutriment that feeds the mind;
Upheld by each good action past,
And still continued by the last? 
Then, who with reason can pretend
That all effects of virtue end? 
  Believe me, Stella, when you show
That true contempt for things below,
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,
Like Janus, bears a double face;
Looks back with joy where she has gone
And therefore goes with courage on: 
She at your sickly 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, surely me, you ought to spare,
Who gladly would your suffering share;
Or give my scrap of life to you,
And think it far beneath your due;
You, to whose care so oft I owe
That I’m alive to tell you so.

DEATH AND DAPHNE.

TO AN AGREEABLE YOUNG LADY, BUT EXTREMELY LEA.

Lord Orrery gives us the following curious anecdote respecting this poem: 

“I have just now cast my eye over a poem called ‘Death and Daphne,’ which makes me recollect an odd incident, relating to that nymph.  Swift, soon after our acquaintance, introduced me to her as to one of his female favourites.  I had scarce been half an hour in her company, before she asked me if I had seen the Dean’s poem upon ‘Death and Daphne.’  As I told her I had not, she immediately unlocked a cabinet, and, bringing out the manuscript, read it to me with a seeming satisfaction, of which, at that time, I doubted the sincerity.  While she was reading, the Dean was perpetually correcting her for bad pronunciation, and for placing a wrong emphasis upon particular words.  As soon as she had gone through the composition, she assured me, smilingly, that the portrait of Daphne was drawn for herself.  I begged to be excused from believing it; and protested that I could not see one feature that had the least resemblance; but the Dean immediately burst into a fit of laughter.  ’You fancy,’ says he, ’that you are very polite, but you are much mistaken.  That lady had rather be a Daphne drawn by me, than a Sacharissa by any other pencil.’  She confirmed what he had said with great earnestness, so that I had no other method of retrieving my error, than by whispering in her ear, as I was conducting her down stairs to dinner, that indeed I found
  ‘Her hand as dry and cold as lead!’”
­Remarks on the Life of Swift, Lond., 1752, .

Death went upon a solemn day
At Pluto’s hall his court to pay;
The phantom having humbly kiss’d
His grisly monarch’s sooty fist,
Presented him the weekly bills
Of doctors, fevers, plagues, and pills. 
Pluto, observing since the peace
The burial article decrease,
And vex’d to see affairs miscarry,
Declared in council Death must marry;
Vow’d he no longer could support
Old bachelors about his court;
The interest of his realm had need
That Death should get a numerous breed;
Young deathlings, who, by practice made
Proficient in their father’s trade,
With colonies might stock around
His large dominions under ground. 
  A consult of coquettes below
Was call’d, to rig him out a beau;
From her own head Megaera takes
A periwig of twisted snakes: 
Which in the nicest fashion curl’d,
(Like toupees of this upper world)
With flower of sulphur powder’d well,
That graceful on his shoulders fell;
An adder of the sable kind
In line direct hung down behind: 
The owl, the raven, and the bat,
Clubb’d for a feather to his hat: 
His coat, a usurer’s velvet pall,
Bequeath’d to Pluto, corpse and all. 
But, loath his person to expose
Bare, like a carcass pick’d by crows,
A lawyer, o’er his hands and face
Stuck artfully a parchment case. 
No new flux’d rake show’d fairer skin;
Nor Phyllis after lying in. 
With snuff was fill’d his ebon box,
Of shin-bones rotted by the pox. 
Nine spirits of blaspheming fops,
With aconite anoint his chops;
And give him words of dreadful sounds,
G ­d d ­n his blood! and b ­d and w ­ds!’
  Thus furnish’d out, he sent his train
To take a house in Warwick-lane:
The faculty, his humble friends,
A complimental message sends: 
Their president in scarlet gown
Harangued, and welcomed him to town. 
  But Death had business to dispatch;
His mind was running on his match. 
And hearing much of Daphne’s fame,
His majesty of terrors came,
Fine as a colonel of the guards,
To visit where she sat at cards;
She, as he came into the room,
Thought him Adonis in his bloom. 
And now her heart with pleasure jumps,
She scarce remembers what is trumps;
For such a shape of skin and bone
Was never seen except her own. 
Charm’d with his eyes, and chin, and snout,
Her pocket-glass drew slily out;
And grew enamour’d with her phiz,
As just the counterpart of his. 
She darted many a private glance,
And freely made the first advance;
Was of her beauty grown so vain,
She doubted not to win the swain;
Nothing she thought could sooner gain him,
Than with her wit to entertain him. 
She ask’d about her friends below;
This meagre fop, that batter’d beau;
Whether some late departed toasts
Had got gallants among the ghosts? 
If Chloe were a sharper still
As great as ever at quadrille? 
(The ladies there must needs be rooks,
For cards, we know, are Pluto’s books.)
If Florimel had found her love,
For whom she hang’d herself above? 
How oft a-week was kept a ball
By Proserpine at Pluto’s hall? 
She fancied those Elysian shades
The sweetest place for masquerades;
How pleasant on the banks of Styx,
To troll it in a coach and six! 
  What pride a female heart inflames? 
How endless are ambition’s aims: 
Cease, haughty nymph; the Fates decree
Death must not be a spouse for thee;
For, when by chance the meagre shade
Upon thy hand his finger laid,
Thy hand as dry and cold as lead,
His matrimonial spirit fled;
He felt about his heart a damp,
That quite extinguished Cupid’s lamp: 
Away the frighted spectre scuds,
And leaves my lady in the suds.

DAPHNE.

Daphne knows, with equal ease,
How to vex, and how to please;
But the folly of her sex
Makes her sole delight to vex. 
Never woman more devised
Surer ways to be despised;
Paradoxes weakly wielding,
Always conquer’d, never yielding. 
To dispute, her chief delight,
Without one opinion right: 
Thick her arguments she lays on,
And with cavils combats reason;
Answers in decisive way,
Never hears what you can say;
Still her odd perverseness shows
Chiefly where she nothing knows;
And, where she is most familiar,
Always peevisher and sillier;
All her spirits in a flame
When she knows she’s most to blame. 
  Send me hence ten thousand miles,
From a face that always smiles: 
None could ever act that part,
But a fury in her heart. 
Ye who hate such inconsistence,
To be easy, keep your distance: 
Or in folly still befriend her,
But have no concern to mend her;
Lose not time to contradict her,
Nor endeavour to convict her. 
Never take it in your thought,
That she’ll own, or cure a fault. 
Into contradiction warm her,
Then, perhaps, you may reform her: 
Only take this rule along,
Always to advise her wrong;
And reprove her when she’s right;
She may then grow wise for spight. 
  No ­that scheme will ne’er succeed,
She has better learnt her creed;
She’s too cunning and too skilful,
When to yield, and when be wilful. 
Nature holds her forth two mirrors,
One for truth, and one for errors: 
That looks hideous, fierce, and frightful;
This is flattering and delightful: 
That she throws away as foul;
Sits by this to dress her soul. 
  Thus you have the case in view,
Daphne, ’twixt the Dean and you: 
Heaven forbid he should despise thee,
But he’ll never more advise thee.