And full of anger, shame, and grief,
Directed them to mind their brief:
Nor spend their time to show their reading:
She'd have a summary proceeding.
She gather'd under every head
The sum of what each lawyer said,
Gave her own reasons last, and then
Decreed the cause against the men.
But in a weighty case like this,
To show she did not judge amiss,
Which evil tongues might else report,
She made a speech in open court,
Wherein she grievously complains,
"How she was cheated by the swains;
On whose petition (humbly showing,
That women were not worth the wooing,
And that, unless the sex would mend,
The race of lovers soon must end) -
She was at lord knows what expense
To form a nymph of wit and sense,
A model for her sex design'd,
Who never could one lover find.
She saw her favor was misplaced;
The fellows had a wretched taste;
She needs must tell them to their face,
They were a stupid senseless race
And, were she to begin again
She'd study to reform the men;
Or add some grains of folly more
To women, than they had before,
To put them on an equal foot;
And this, or nothing else, would do't.
This might their mutual fancy strike;
Since every being loves its like.
"But now, repenting what was done,
She left all business to her son;
She put the world in his possession,
And let him use it at discretion."
The crier was order'd to dismiss
The court, so made his last "O yes!"
The goddess would no longer wait;
But rising from her chair of state,
Left all below at six and seven,
Harness'd her doves and flew to heaven.
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, that triumph'st o'er the wise.
Found on Miss Vanhomrigh's desk, after her death, in the handwriting of Dr. Swift.
Iby traps are laid with such peasliar art.
They each the madlas, let the rash depart.
Most nets are £1'i by want of thought and eare:
But too math thinking brings us to icy stare;
Where, held by thee, in slavery we stay.
And throw the pleasing pan of life away.
Bat, what does most my indignation move.
Discretion! then went refer a friend to Love:
Thy chief delight is to defeat those arts,
By which he kindles mutual fames in hearts;
While the blind loitering god 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 god, 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 odis,
And bred such feuds between those kindred gods,
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.
When titles, 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.
Cur the name of the man who his mistress denied,
And let the first of it be only applied
To join with the prophet2 who David did ehide;
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 succor with speed,
When his friends want his aid, or desert is in need.
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 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 gods 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 lustre 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.)
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 god 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 god, 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 gods,
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,
When titles, 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.
CUT the name of the man 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;
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 succor with speed,
When his friends want his aid, or desert is in need.
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 BIRTHDAY.
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 gods 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 lustre 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,)
|