TO A CHILD OF QUALITY, FIVE
YEARS OLD, MDCCIV.
THE AUTHOR THEN FORTY.
LORDS, knights, and squires, the numerous band,
That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters,
Were summoned by her high command,
To show their passions by their letters.
My pen among the rest I took,
Lest those bright eyes that cannot read Should dart their kindling fires, and look The power they have to be obeyed.
Nor quality, nor reputation,
Forbid me yet my flame to tell,
Dear five years old befriends my passion,
And I may write till she can spell.
For, while she makes her silkworms beds,
With all the tender things I swear;
Whilst all the house my passion reads,
In papers round her baby's hair;
She may receive and own my flame,
For, though the strictest prudes should know it, She'll pass for a most virtuous dame, And I for an unhappy poet.
Then too, alas! when she shall tear
The lines some younger rival sends ; She'll give me leave to write, I fear, And we shall still continue friends.
For as our different ages move,
'Tis so ordained, (would Fate but mend it!)
That I shall be past making love,
When she begins to comprehend it.
STELLA'S BIRTHDAY, 1720.
ALL travellers at first incline
Where'er they see the fairest sign;
And, if they find the chamber neat,
And like the liquor and the meat,
Will call again, and recommend
The Angel Inn to every friend.
What though the painting grows decay'd,
The House will never lose its trade:
Nay, tho' the treacherous tapster, Thomas
Hangs a new angel two doors from us,
As fine as dauber's hands can make it,
In hopes that strangers may mistake it,
We 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 but to 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;
Or stop and light at Chloe's head,
With scraps 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 :
And 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 grey,
When age must print a furrow'd trace
On every feature of her face;
That 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 pass your door,
And crowd to Stella's at four score.
A BETTER ANSWER.”
DEAR Chloe, how blubbered is that pretty face! Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all un
Pr'ythee quit this caprice; and (as old Falstaff says)
Let us e'en talk a little like folks of this world.
How canst thou presume, thou hast leave to destroy
The beauties which Venus but lent to thy keeping?
Those looks were designed to inspire love and joy : More ordinary eyes may serve people for
To be vexed at a trifle or two that I writ,
Your judgment at once, and my passion you
You take that for fact, which will scarce be found
Od's life! must one swear to the truth of a song?
What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write,
The difference there is betwixt nature and art: I court others in verse; but I love thee in prose : And they have my whimsies, but thou hast my heart.
The god of us verse-men (you know, child), the sun,
How after his journeys he sets up his rest :
If at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run;
At night he reclines on his Thetis's breast.
So when I am wearied with wandering all day,
To thee, my delight, in the evening I come :
No matter what beauties I saw in my way:
They were but my visits, but thou art my home.
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