Wherein his genius was below
The skill of every common beau,
Who, though he cannot spell, is wise
Enough to read a lady's eyes,
And will each accidental glance
Interpret for a kind advance.

But what success Vanessa met
Is to the world a secret yet:
Whether the nymph, to please her swain,
Talks in a high romantic strain,
Or whether he at last descends
To like with less seraphic ends;
Or, to compound the business, whether
They temper love and books together;
Must never to mankind be told,
Nor shall the conscious Muse unfold.
Mean-time the mournful queen of Love
Led but a weary life above:
She ventures now to leave the skies,
Grown by Vanessa's conduct wise;
For though by one perverse event
Pallas had cross'd her first intent,
Though her design was not obtain'd,
Yet had she much experience gain'd,
And by the project vainly tried,
Could better now the cause decide.
She gave due notice that both parties,
Coram regina pror' die Martis,
Should at their peril, without fail,
Come and appear, and save their bail.
All met; and, silence thrice proclaim'd,
One lawyer to each side was nam'd.
The judge discover'd in her face
Resentments for her late disgrace,
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 shewing
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 favour was misplac'd;
The fellows had a wretched taste;
She needs must tell them to their face,
They were a senseless, stupid 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 puts 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 'Oyes.' The goddess would no longer wait, But, rising from her chair of state, Left all below at six and sev'n, Harness'd her doves, and flew to heav'n. STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY, 1720.

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.
What though the painting grows decay'd?
The house will never lose its trade;
Nay, though 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 expence;
Their mind 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 innuendos, 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 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 pass your door,
And crowd to Stella's at fourscore.

STELLA AT WOOD-PARK,

A House of Charles Ford, Esq. Eight Miles from Dublin. Written in 1723.

Cuicunque nocere volebat

Vestimenta dabat pretiosa.

DON Carlos, in a merry spite,

Did Stella to his house invite;

He entertain'd her half a year
With generous wines and costly cheer.
Don Carlos made her chief director,
That she might o'er the servants hector:
In half a week the dame grew nice,
Got all things at the highest price:
Now at the table-head she sits,
Presented with the nicest bits;
She look'd on partridges with scorn,
Except they tasted of the corn;
A haunch of ven'son made her sweat,
Unless it had the right fumette.

Don Carlos earnestly would beg,
Dear Madam! try this pigeon's leg;'

Was happy when he could prevail
To make her only touch a quail.
Through candle-light she view'd the wine,
To see that every glass was fine.
At last grown prouder than the devil,
With feeding high and treatment civil,
Don Carlos now began to find
His malice work as he design'd.
The winter-sky began to frown,
Poor Stella must pack off to town;
From purling streams and fountains bubbling,
To Liffey's stinking tide at Dublin;
From wholesome exercise and air,
To sossing in an easy chair;
From stomach sharp and hearty feeding,
To piddle, like a lady breeding;
From ruling there the household singly,
To be directed here by Dingley*;
From every day a lordly banquet,
To half a joint, and God be thanked;
From every meal, Pontack in plenty,
To half a pint one day in twenty;
From Ford attending at her call,
To visits of

From Ford, who thinks of nothing mean,
To the poor doings of the Dean;
From growing richer with good cheer,
To running out by starving here.
But now arrives the dismal day,
She must return to Ormond-quay.
The coachman stopt, she look'd, and swore
The rascal had mistook the door.`
At coming in you saw her stoop;
The entry brush'd against her hoop.
Each moment rising in her airs,
She curs'd the narrow winding stairs;

* The constant companion of Stella.