What Indignation in her Mind
Against Enflavers of Mankind!
Bafe Kings and Ministers of State,
Eternal Objects of her Hate.
SHE thinks that Nature ne'er design'd
Courage to Man alone confin'd;
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 fcream and start;
Nor calls up all the House at Night,
And fwears the faw a Thing in White.
Doll never flies to cut her Lace,
Or throw cold Water in her Face,
Because fhe heard a fudden Drum,
Or found an Earwig in a Plum.
HER Hearers are amaz'd from whence
Proceeds that Fund of Wit and Sense;
Which, tho' her Modefty wou'd shroud,
Breaks like the Sun behind a Cloud,
While Gracefulness its Art conceals,
And yet thro' ev'ry Motion steals.
SAY, Stella, was Prometheus blind, And forming you, miftook your Kind?
The Fire that forms a manly Soul,
Then, to compleat it ev'ry Way,
He moulded it with Female Clay,
To that you owe the nobler Flame,
To this, the Beauty of your Frame.
How wou'd Ingratitude delight?
And how wou'd Cenfure glut her Spight?
If I fhould Stella's Kindness hide
In Silence, or forget with Pride,
When on my fickly Couch I lay,
Impatient both of Night and Day,
Lamenting in unmanly Strains,
Call'd ev'ry Pow'r to ease my Pains,
Then Stella ran to my Relief
With chearful Face, and inward Grief;
And tho' by Heav'n's fevere Decree
She fuffers hourly more than me,
No cruel Mafter could require
From Slaves employ'd for daily Hire
What Stella by her Friendship warm'd,
With Vigour and Delight perform'd.
My finking Spirits now fupplies
With Cordials in her Hands, and Eyes,
Now with a foft and filent Tread,
Unheard fhe moves about my Bed.
I fee her tafte each naufeous Draught,
And fo obligingly am caught:
I bless the Hand from whence they came,
Nor dare diftort my Face for Shame.
T 2
BEST Pattern of true Friends, beware;
You pay too dearly for your Care;
If while your Tenderness fecures
My Life, it must endanger yours.
For fuch a Fool was never found,
Who pull'd a Palace to the Ground,
Only to have the Ruins made
Materials for an House decay'd.
VERSES on the DEATH of Dr. SWIFT, occafioned by reading the following Maxim in ROCHFOUCAULT.
Dans l'adverfité de nos meilleurs amis nous trouvous toujours quelque chofes, qui ne nous deplaift pas.
S Rochfoucault his Maxims drew
From Nature, I believe 'em true;
They argue no corrupted Mind
In him; The Fault is in Mankind.
This Maxim more than all the reft Is thought too bafe for human Breast: In all Diftreffes of our Friends
We first confult our private Ends: "While Nature, kindly bent to eafe us, Points out fome Circumftance to please us."
If this perhaps your Patience move; Let Reafon and Experience prove.
We all behold with envious Eyes
Our Equal rais'd above our Size.
I love my Friend as well as you:
But why should he obftruct my view?
Then, let me have the higher Poft;
Suppose it but an Inch at most.
If in a Battle you should find
One, whom you love of all Mankind,
Had fome heroick Action done,
A Champion kill'd or Trophy won;
Rather than thus be overtopt,
Wou'd you not wish his Laurels cropt?
Dear honest Ned is in the Gout,
Lies rack'd with Pain, and you without
How patiently you hear him groan!
How glad the Cafe is not your own!
What Poet would not mourn to fee
His Brother write as well as he?
But rather than they should excell
He'd with his Rivals all in Hell.
Her End when Emulation miffes, She turns to Envy, Stings and Hiffes:
The strongest Friendship yields to Pride,
Unless the Odds be on our Side.
Vain human Kind! fantastick Race!
Thy various Follies who can trace?
Self-love, Ambition, Envy, Pride,
Their Empire in our Hearts divide.
Give others Riches, Power, and Station;
Tis all on me a Ufurpation.
I have no Title to aspire,
Yet, when you fink, I feem the higher.
In Pope I cannot read a Line,
But with a Sigh I wish it mine:
When he can in one Couplet fix.
More Sense, than I can do in fix,
It gives me fuch a jealous Fit;
I cry, Pox take him and his Wit,
I grieve to be outdone by Gay
In my own humorous biting way.
Arbuthnot is no more my Friend,
Who dares to Irony pretend;
Which I was born to introduce
Refin'd it firft, and fhew'd its Ufe.
St. John, as well as Pultney, knows
That I had fome Repute for Profe;
And, till they drove me out of Date,
Could maul a Minifter of State.
If they have mortify'd my Pride,
And made me throw my Pen afide;
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