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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 first to find
In fuch a form an angel's mind;
And every virtue now fupplies
The fainting rays of Stella's eyes.
See at her levee crouding fwains,
Whom Stella freely entertains

With breeding, humour, wit, and fenfe;.
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 ftock been lefs, no doubt
She muft have long ago run out.

Then who can think we 'll quit the place,
When Doll hangs out a newer face?
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 you tell us,
That Stella loves to talk with fellows :


And let me warn you to believe

A truth, for which your soul should grieve;
That, fhould you live to see the day
When Stella's locks must all be grey,
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 fenfe will pafs your door,
And croud to Stella's at fourscore.



Who collected and transcribed his POEMS. 1720.

AS, when a lofty pile is rais'd,

We never hear the workmen prais'd,
Who bring the lime, or place the stones :
But all admire Inigo Jones :

So, if this pile of scatter'd rhymes
Should be approv'd in after-times;
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 ftrung,
Without one word of Cupid's darts,
Of killing eyes, or bleeding hearts:

With Friendship and Efteem poffeft,
I ne'er admitted Love a guest.

In all the habitudes of life,

The friend, the mistress, and the wife,
Variety we ftill pursue,

In pleasure seek for something new;
Or elfe, comparing with the reft,
Take comfort, that our own is beft;
The best we value by the worst

(As tradesmen fhew their trash at first) :
But his pursuits were at an end,
Whom Stella chuses for a friend.

A Poet ftarving in a garret,
Conning all topicks like a parrot,
Invokes his Mistress and his Muse,
And stays at home for want of fhoes :
Should but his Mufe defcending drop
A flice of bread and mutton-chop;
Or kindly, when his credit's out,
Surprize him with a pint of stout;
Or patch his broken ftocking-foals,
Or fend him in a peck of coals;
Exalted in his mighty mind,

He flies, and leaves the ftars behind:
Counts all his labours amply paid,
Adores her for the timely aid.

Or, fhould a porter make enquiries

For Chloe, Sylvia, Phyllis, Iris ;
Be told the lodging, lane, and fign,
The bowers that hold those nymphs divine;

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Fair Chloe would perhaps be found
With footmen tippling under ground;
The charming Sylvia beating flax,

Her fhoulders mark'd with bloody tracks; :
Bright Phyllis mending ragged fmocks ;
And radiant Iris in the pox.

These are the goddesses enroll'd

In Curll's collection, new and old,

Whofe fcoundrel 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 fcurrilous in fatire,

Nor will in panegyrick flatter.
Unjustly poets we asperse;

Truth shines 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, drefs, or paint, or youth,
What Stoics call without our power,
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 could my verses bring,
Perhaps you 're quite another thing.

So Mævius, when he drain'd his skull
To celebrate fome fuburb trull,



His fimilies in order fet,

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 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 thefe lines tranfcribe,
Left you fhould take them for a bribe,
Refolv'd to mortify your pride,
I'll here expofe your weaker fide.
Your fpirits 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;
Perverfenefs is your whole defence;
Truth, judgement, wit, give place to fpight,
Regardlefs 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 :
In vain; for fee, your friend hath brought
To public light your only fault;


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