Fair Chloe would perhaps be found
With footmen tippling under ground;
The charming Sylvia beating flax,
Her shoulders mark'd with bloody tracks;
Bright Phyllis mending ragged fmocks;
And radiant Iris in the pox.
These are the goddeffes 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 verse,
And all the fictions they pursue,
Do but infinuate what is true.
Now, fhould my praifes 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 fhoot,
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:
I et malice look with all her eyes,
She dares not fay the poet lyes.
Stella, when you these 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;
Perverseness is your whole defence;
Truth, judgement, wit, give place to spight,
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;
And yet a fault we often find
Mix'd in a noble generous mind ;
And may coinpare to Ætna's fire,
Which, though with trembling, all admire
The heat, that makes the fummit glow,
Enriching all the vales below.
Those who in warmer elimes complain
From Phoebus' rays they fuffer pain,
Muft own that pain is largely paid
By generous wines beneath a shade.
Yet, when I find your paffions rife,
And anger fparkling in your eyes,
I grieve thofe fpirits should be spent,
For nobler ends by nature meant.
One paffion with a different turn
Makes wit inflame, or anger burn:
So the fun's heat with different powers
Ripens the grape, the liquors fours:
Thus Ajax, when with rage poffeft
By Pallas breath'd into his breast,
His valour would no more employ,
Which might alone have conquer'd Troy;
But, blinded by refentment, feeks
For vengeance on his friends the Greeks.
You think this turbulence of blood From ftagnating preferves the flood, Which thus fermenting by degrees Exalts the fpirits, finks the lees.
Stella, for once you reafon wrong; For, fhould this ferment laft too long,
By time fubfiding, you may find
Nothing but acid left behind;
From paflion you may then be freed,
When peevishness and fpleen fucceed.
Say, Stella, when you copy next,
Will you keep ftrictly to the text?
Dare you let these reproaches ftand,
And to your failing set your
hand?
Or, if these lines your anger fire,
Shall they in bafer flames expire?
Whene'er they burn, if burn they must,
They 'll prove my accufation juft.
STELLA,
Vifiting me in my Sickness, 1720 *..
PALLAS, obferving Stella's wit
Was more than for her fex was fit,
And that her beauty, foon or late,
Might breed confufion in the state,
In high concern for human-kind,
Fix'd honour in her infant mind.
But (not in wranglings to engage
With fuch a ftupid vicious age)
If honour I would here define,
It anfwers faith in things divine.
As natural life the body warms,
And, fcholars teach, the foul informs;
So honour animates the whole,
And is the fpirit of the foul.
* See the Verfes on her Birth-day, 1723-4.
Those numerous virtues which the tribe
Of tedious moralifts defcribe,
And by fuch various titles call,
True honour comprehends them all.
Let melancholy rule supreme,
Choler prefide, or blood, or phlegm,
It makes no difference in the case,
Nor is complexion honour's place.
But, left we should for honour take,
The drunken quarrels of a rake;
Or think it feated in a fcar,
Or on a proud triumphal car,
Or in the payment of a debt
We lofe with fharpers at picquet;
Or when a whore in her vocation
Keeps punctual to an affignation;
Or that on which his lordship fwears,
When vulgar knaves would lose their ears;
Let Stella's fair example preach
A leffon fhe alone can teach.
In points of honour to be try'd,
All paffions must be laid aside :
Ask no advice, but think alone;
Suppofe the queftion not your own.
How fhall I act is not the cafe ;
But how would Brutus in my place?
In fuch a case would Cato bleed?
And how would Socrates proceed?
Drive all objections from your mind,
Elfe you relapfe to human-kind :
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