Perhaps you wonder whence this friendship fprings.
Between the weavers, and us play-house kings :
Butwit and weaving had the fame beginning; Pallas firft taught us poetry and fpinning. And next obferve how this alliance fits, For weavers now are juft as poor as wits: Their brother quill-men, workers for the stage,
For forry stuff can get a crown a page ; But weavers will be kinder to the players, And fell for twenty pence a yard of theirs: And, to your knowledge, there is often lefs in The poet's wit, than in the player's dreffing.
ENEATH this verdant hillock lies
Demar, the wealthy and the wife.
His heirs, that he might safely rest,
Haye put his carcass in a cheft;
The very cheft, in which, they say,
His other felf, his money lay.
And, if his heirs continue kind
To that dear self he left behind,
I dare believe, that four in five
Will think his better half alive.
Who collected and transcribed his Poems.
AS, when a lofty pile is rais'd,
Α 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 fcatter'd rhymes
Shou'd be approv'd in after-times,
If it both pleases and endures,
The merit and the praise are yours.
Thou, Stella, wer't no longer young,
When firft for thee my harp I ftrung,
Without one word of Cupid's darts,
Of killing eyes, or bleeding hearts :
With friendship and esteem poffeft,
I ne'er admitted love a gueft.
In all the habitudes of life,
The friend, the miftrefs, and the wife,
Variety we ftill purfue,
In pleasure feek for fomething new;
Or elfe, comparing with the reft,
Take comfort, that our own is beft;
The best we value by the worst,
(As tradefmen fhew their trash at first :)
But his pursuits are at end,
Whom Stella chufes for a friend.
A poet ftarving in a garret,
Conning old topicks like a parrot,
Invokes his mistress and his muse,
And stays at home for want of fhoes:
Shou'd but his muse descending drop
A flice of bread and mutton-chop;
Or kindly, when his credit's out,
Surprize him with a pint of ftout *;
Or patch his broken stocking 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, fhou'd a porter make enquiries
For Chloe, Sylvia, Phillis, Iris,
Be told the lodging, lane, and fign,
The bow'rs that hold those nymphs divine;
Fair Chloe would perhaps be found
With footmen tippling under ground;
The charming Sylvia beating flax,
Her fhoulders 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 + collection, new and old,
* A cant word for ftrong beer.
+ See an account of Curll, Vol. IV.
Whofe fcoundrel fathers wou'd not know
If they fhou'd meet them in a poem.
True poets can deprefs and raise,
Are lords of infamy and praise;
They are not fcurrilous in fatire,
Nor will in panegyrick flatter.
Unjustly poets we afperfe:
Truth fhines the brighter clad in verse;
And all the fictions, they purfue,
Do but infinuate what is true.
Now, should my praises owe their truth To beauty, drefs, 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 fhoot, Die the next year for want of root: Before I cou'd my verfes bring, Perhaps you're quite another thing.
So Mævius, when he drain'd his fkull To celebrate fome fuburb trull,
His fimilies in order fet,
And ev'ry crambo he cou'd get;
gone through all the common-places
Worn out by wits, who rhyme on faces : Q
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 lyes.
Stella, when you thefe lines transcribe,
Left you fhould take them for a bribe,
Refolv'd to mortify your pride,
I'll here expose your weaker fide.
Your fpirits kindle to a flame,
Mov'd with the lighteft touch of blame; And, when a friend in kindness tries
you where your error lies,
Conviction does but more incense;
Perversenefs is your whole defence;
Truth, judgment, wit, give place to spight,
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 :
In vain; for fee, your friend hath brought
To publick light your only fault;
And yet a fault we often find
Mix'd in a noble gen'rous mind;
|