TO LOVE[1]

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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.ds, 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 t.i.tles, 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.

[Footnote 1: Found in Miss Vanhomrigh's desk, after her death, in the handwriting of Dr. Swift.--_H._]

A REBUS. BY VANESSA

Cut the name of the man [1] who his mistress denied, And let the first of it be only applied To join with the prophet[2] who David did chide; Then say what a horse is that runs very fast;[3]

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.

[Footnote 1: Jo-seph.]

[Footnote 2: Nathan.]

[Footnote 3: Swift.]

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 G.o.ds 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 l.u.s.tre 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.[1] 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,[2] 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[3] 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 sc.r.a.ps 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 pa.s.s your door, And crowd to Stella's at four-score.

[Footnote 1: Collated with Stella's own copy transcribed in her volume.--_Forster_.]

[Footnote 2: Rascal.--_Stella_.]

[Footnote 3: They.--_Stella_.]

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 b.l.o.o.d.y tracks;[1]

Bright Phillis mending ragged smocks: And radiant Iris in the pox.

These are the G.o.ddesses 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[2] 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.