Truth, judgment, wit, give place to spite,
Regardless both of wrong and right;
Your virtues all suspended wait,
Till time has open'd reason's gate;
And what is worse, your passion bends
Its force against your nearest friends,
Which manners, decency, and pride,
Have taught you from the world to hide;
In vain; for see, your friend has brought
To public light your only fault;

And yet a fault we often find
Mix'd in a noble, generous mind;
And may compare to Etna's fire,

Which, though with trembling, all admire;
The heat that makes the summit glow,
Enriching all the vales below.

Those who in warmer climes complain
From Phoebus' rays they suffer pain,
Must own that pain is largely paid
By generous wines beneath a shade.

Yet when I find your passions rise,
And anger sparkling in your eyes,
I grieve those spirits should be spent,
For nobler ends by nature meant.
One passion with a different turn,
Makes wit inflame, or anger burn:
So the sun's heat, with different powers,
Ripens the grape, the liquor sours:
Thus Ajax, when with rage possess'd,
By Pallas breathed into his breast,
His valor would no more employ,
Which might alone have conquer'd Troy;
But blinded by resentment, seeks
For vengeance on his friends the Greeks.
You think this turbulence of blood
From stagnating preserves the flood,
Which, thus fermenting by degrees,
Exalts the spirits, sinks the lees.
Stella for once you reason wrong,
For should this ferment last too long,
By time subsiding, you may find
Nothing but acid left behind;
From passion you may then be freed,
When peevishness and spleen succeed.
Say, Stella, when you copy next,
Will you keep strictly to the text?
Dare you let these reproaches stand,
And to your failing set your hand?
Or, if these lines your anger fire,
Shall they in baser flames expire?
Whene'er they burn, if burn they must,

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 bloody tracks;
Bright Phillis mending ragged smocks;
And radiant Iris in the pox.

These are the goddesses 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 Mævius, when he drain'd his skull
To celebrate some suburb trull,
His similes in order set,

And every crambo he could get;

Had gone through all the commonplaces
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.

Stella, when you these lines transcribe,

Lest you should take them for a bribe,
Resolved to mortify your pride,
I'll here expose your weaker side.

Your spirits kindle to a flame,

Moved with the lightest touch of blame;
And when a friend in kindness tries
To show you where your error lies,
Conviction does but more incense;

Truth, judgment, wit, give place to spite,
Regardless both of wrong and right;
Your virtues all suspended wait,
Till time has open'd reason's gate;
And what is worse, your passion bends
Its force against your nearest friends,
Which manners, decency, and pride,
Have taught you from the world to hide;
In vain for see, your friend has brought
To public light your only fault;
And yet a fault we often find
Mix'd in a noble, generous mind;
And may compare to Etna's fire,

Which, though with trembling, all admire;
The heat that makes the summit glow,
Enriching all the vales below.

Those who in warmer climes complain
From Phoebus' rays they suffer pain,
Must own that pain is largely paid
By generous wines beneath a shade.
Yet when I find your passions rise,
And anger sparkling in your eyes,
I grieve those spirits should be spent,
For nobler ends by nature meant.
One passion with a different turn,
Makes wit inflame, or anger burn:
So the sun's heat, with different powers,
Ripens the grape, the liquor sours:
Thus Ajax, when with rage possess'd,
By Pallas breathed into his breast,
His valor would no more employ,
Which might alone have conquer'd Troy;
But blinded by resentment, seeks
For vengeance on his friends the Greeks.
You think this turbulence of blood
From stagnating preserves the flood,
Which, thus fermenting by degrees,
Exalts the spirits, sinks the lees.
Stella for once you reason wrong,
For should this ferment last too long,
By time subsiding, you may find
Nothing but acid left behind;
From passion you may then be freed,
When peevishness and spleen succeed.
Say, Stella, when you copy next,
Will you keep strictly to the text?
Dare you let these reproaches stand,
And to your failing set your hand?
Or, if these lines your anger fire,
Shall they in baser flames expire?
Whene'er they burn, if burn they must,

TO STELLA,

VISITING ME IN MY SICKNESS. 1720.

PALLAS, observing Stella's wit
Was more than for her sex was fit,
And that her beauty, soon or late,
Might breed confusion in the state,
In high concern for humankind,
Fix'd honor in her infant mind.

But (not in wranglings to engage
With such a stupid vicious age)
If honor I would here define,
It answers faith in things divine.
As natural life the body warms,

And, scholars teach, the soul informs,
So honor animates the whole,

And is the spirit of the soul.

Those numerous virtues which the tribe

Of tedious moralists describe,

And by such various titles call,
True honor comprehends them all.
Let melancholy rule supreme,
Choler preside, or blood, or phlegm,
It makes no difference in the case,
Nor is complexion honor's place.

But, lest we should for honor take
The drunken quarrels of a rake;
Or think it seated in a scar,
Or on a proud triumphal car;
Or in the payment of a debt
We lose with sharpers at piquet:
Or when a whore, in her vocation,
Keeps punctual to an assignation;
Or that on which his lordship swears,
When vulgar knaves would lose their ears,
Let Stella's fair example preach

A lesson she alone can teach.

In points of honor to be tried,
All passions must be laid aside:
Ask no advice, but think alone;
Suppose the question not your own.
How shall I act is not the case,
But how would Brutus in my place?
In such a case would Cato bleed?
And how would Socrates proceed?
Drive all objections from your mind,
Else you relapse to humankind:
Ambition, avarice, and lust,

A factious rage, and breach of trust,
And flattery tipp'd with nauseous fleer,

Envy, and cruelty, and pride,
Will in your tainted heart preside.
Heroes and heroines of old

By honor only were enroll'd
Among their brethren in the skies,
To which (though late) shall Stella rise.
Ten thousand oaths upon record
Are not so sacred as her word:
The world shall in its atoms end,
Ere Stella can deceive a friend.
By honor seated in her breast
She still determines what is best:
What indignation in her mind
Against enslavers of mankind!
Basc kings and ministers of state,
Eternal objects of her hate!

She thinks that nature ne'er design'd
Courage to man alone confined.
Can cowardice her sex adorn,
Which most exposes ours to scorn?
She wonders where the charm appears
In Florimel's affected fears.;

For Stella never learn'd the art
At proper times to scream and start;
Nor calls up all the house at night,
And swears she saw a thing in white.
Doll never flies to cut her lace,
Or throw cold water in her face,
Because she heard a sudden drum,
Or found an earwig in a plum.

Her hearers are amazed from whence.
Proceeds that fund of wit and sense;
Which, though her modesty would shroud,
Breaks like the sun behind a cloud;
While gracefulness its art conceals,
And yet through every motion steals.
Say, Stella, was Prometheus blind,
And, forming you, mistook your kind?
No; 'twas for you alone he stole
The fire that forms a manly soul;
Then to complete it every way,
He moulded it with female clay:
To that you owe the nobler flame,
To this the beauty of your frame.

How would Ingratitude delight, And how would Censure glut her spite, If I should Stella's kindness hide In silence, or forget with pride! When on my sickly couch I lay, Impatient both of night and day, Lamenting in unmanly strains, Call'd every power to ease my pains;