Emblem of a monarch old,
Wife, and glorious to behold;
Wasted he appears, and pale,
Watching for the public weal:
Emblem of the bashful dame,
That in fecret feeds her flame,
Often aiding to impart
All the fecrets of her heart:
Various is my bulk and hue,
Big like Befs, and fmall like Sue;
Now brown and burnish'd like a nut,
At other times a very flut;
Often fair, and foft, and tender,
Taper, tall, and finooth, and flender;
Like Flora deck'd with fairest flowers,
Like Phoebus, guardian of the hours :.
But, whatever be my drefs,
Greater be my fize or lefs,
Swelling be my shape or fmall,.
Like thyfelf I fhine in all.
Clouded if my face is feen,
My complexion wan and green,
Languid like a love-fick maid,.
Steel affords me present aid.
Soon or late, my date is done,
As my thread of life is fpun;
Yet to cut the fatal thread
Oft' revives my drooping head :
Yet I perish in my prime,
Seldom by the death of time;
Die like lovers as they gaze,
Die for those I live to pleafe;
Pine unpitied to my urn,
Nor warm the fair for whom I burn;
Unpitied, unlamented too,
Die like all that look on you.
I REACH all things near me, and far off to boot,
Without ftretching a finger, or stirring a foot,
I take them all in too, to add to your wonder,
Though many and various, and large and afunder.
Without joftling or crowding they pass fide by fide,
Through a wonderful wicket, not half an inch wide:
Then I lodge them at eafe in a very large ftore,
Of no breadth or length, with a thousand things more,
All this I can do without witchcraft or charm,
Though fometimes, they fay, I bewitch and do harm;
Though cold, I inflame; and though quiet, invade;
And nothing can fhield from my spell but a fhade.
A thief that has robb'd you, or done you difgrace,
In magical mirrour I'll fhew you his face :
Nay, if you 'll believe what the poets have faid,
They 'll tell you I kill, and can call back the dead.
Like conjurers fafe in my circle I dwell,
I love to look black too, it heightens my fpell;
Though my magick is mighty in every hue,
Who fee all my power must see it in You.
ANSWERED BY DR. SWIFT.
WITH half an eye your riddle I spy.
I obferve your wicket hemm'd in by a thicket,
And whatever passes is ftrained through glaffes..
You fay it is quiet: I flatly deny it.
It wanders about, without stirring out;
No paffion fo weak but gives it a tweak;
Love, joy, and devotion, fet it always in motion.
And as for the tragic effects of its magick
Which you say it can kill, or revive at its will,
The dead are all found, and revive above ground,
After all you have writ, it cannot be wit;
Which plainly does follow, fince it flies from Apollo.
Its cowardice fúch, it cries at a touch,
"Tis a perfect milkfop, grows drunk with a drop.
Another great fault, it cannot bear falt
And a hair can difarm it of every charm.
BY DR. SWIFT.
ROM India's burning clime I 'm brought,
With cooling gales like Zephyrs fraught.
Not Iris, when the paints the sky,
Can fhew more different hue than I;,
Nor can fhe change her form so fast,
I'm now a fail, and now a mast.
I here am red, and there am green,
Abeggar there, and here a queen.
I fometimes live in house of hair,
And oft' in hand of lady fair.
I please the young, I grace
And am at once both hot and cold.
Say what I am then, if you can,
And find the rhyme, and you 're the man.
ANSWERED BY DR. SHERIDAN.
YOUR houfe of hair and lady's hand
At first did put me to a stand.
I have it now - 'tis plain enough
Your hairy business is a muff.
Your engine fraught with cooling gales,
At once fo like your mafts and fails;
And for the rhyme to you 're the man,
What fits it better than a fan?
RECEIPT
TO RESTORE STELLA'S YOUTH.
HE Scottish hinds, too poor to house
In frosty nights their starving cows,
While not a blade of grafs or hay
Appears from Michaelmas to May,
Muft let their cattle range in vain
For food along the barren plain.
Meagre and lank with fafting grown,
And nothing left but skin and bone;
Expos'd to want, and wind, and weather,
They just keep life and foul together,
Till fummer-fhowers and evening's dew
Again the verdant glebe renew;
And, as the vegetables rife,
The famifh'd cow her want fupplies :
Without an ounce of last year's flesh;
Whate'er the gains is young and fresh;
Grows plump and round, and full of mettle,
As rifing from Medea's kettle,
With youth and beauty to inchant
Europa's counterfeit gallant.
Why, Stella, fhould you knit
If I compare you to the cow?
"Tis juft the cafe; for you have fafted
So long, till all your flesh is wafted,
And must against the warmer days
Be fent to Quilca down to graze ;
Where mirth, and exercise, and air,
Will foon 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 fprightly blood:
Nor flesh nor blood will be the fame,
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;
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