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stroke of mine, he fell,
'Tis true he roard and cry'd ;
But his impenetrable shell
Could feel no harm beside.
The tortoise chus, with motion flow,
Will clamber up a wal} ;
"Yet, senseless to the hardest blow,
Gets nothing but a fall.
Dear Dan, then, "why should you, or I,
Attack his pericrany?
And, since it is in vain to try,
:We'll send him to Delany.
POST SCRIPT. Lean Tom, 'when I saw him, last week, on his horse
awry, Threaten'd loudly to turn me ro fone with his sorcery. But, I think, little Dan, that, in spight of what our
He will find I read Ovid and his Metamorphosis.
For omitting the first (where I 'make a comparison,
With a sort of allusion to Putland * or Harrison)
Yet, by my.description, you 'll find he in short is
A pack and a ġarran, a top and a'tortoise.
So I hope from henceforward you ne’erwillákk, can I maúl
This teazing, conceited, rude, infolent animal ?
And, if this rebuke might turn to his benefit,
(For I pity the man) I should be glad then of it.
Alluding to the Prologue, mentioned above, p. 227.
Τ Ο DR. SHERIDAN,
On his “ ART of PUNNING."
HAD I ten thousand mouths and tongues,
Ten thousand sculls with brains to think,
Ten thousand siandises of ink,
Ten thousand hands and pens to write
Thy praise I'd liudy day and night.
Oh may thy Work for ever live!
(Dear Tom, a friendly zeal forgive,)
May no vile miscreant fawcy Cook
Presume to tear thy learned Book;
To finge his Fowl for nicer guest,
Or pin it on the Turkey's breas.
Keep it from pasty bak'd or flying,
From broiling fake, or fritters frying,
From lighting pipe, or making snuff,
Or casing up a feather muff,
From all the several ways the Grocer
(Who to the learned world's a foe, Sir,)
Has found in twisting, folding, packing,
His brains and ours at once a racking.
And may it never curl the head,
Of either living block or dead !
Thus, when all dangers they have past,
Your leaves, like leaves of brass, shall last.
No blaft Thall froin a Critick's breath,
By vile injection, cause their death,
Till thev in fiames at last expire,
And lelp to set the world on fire.
STELLA TO DR. SWIFT.
On his Birth-day, Nove 30, 1721.
ST. Patrick's Dean, your country's pride,
My early and my only guide,
Let me among the rest attend,
Your pupil and your humble friend,
To celebrate in female strains
The day that paid your mother's pains ;
Descend to take that tribute due
In gratitude alone to you.
When men began to call me fair,
You interpos’d your timely care ;
You early taught me to defpife
The ogling of a coxcomb's eyes;
Shew'd where my judgement was misplac'd;
Refin’d my fancy and my
Behold that beauty just decay'd,
Invoking art to nature's aid :
Forsook by her admiring train,
She spreads her tatter'd nets in vain ;
Short was her part upon the stage ;
Went smoothly on for half a page ;
Her bloom was gone, she wanted art,
As the scene chang’d, to change her part :
She, whom no lover could resist,
Before the second act was hiss'd.
Such is the fate of female race
With no endowments but a face;
Before the thirtieth year of life,
A maid forlorn, or hated wife.
Stella to you, her tutor, owes That she has ne'er resembled those ; Nor was a burden to mankind With half her course of years behind. You taugh e how I might youth prolong, By knowing what was right and wrong ; How from my heart to bring supplies Of lustre to my fading eyes; How soon a beauteous mind repairs The lofs of chang'd or falling hairs ; How wit and virtue from within Send out a smoothness o'er the skin : Your lectures could my fancy fix, And I can please at thirty-fix. The sight of Cloe at fifteen Coquetting, gives not me the spleen; The idol now of every Till time lhall make their passions cool; Then cumbling down`time's steepy hill, While Stella holds her station still. Oh! turn your precepts into laws, Redeem the women's ruin'd cause, Retrieve lost empire: to our sex, That men may bow their rebel necks.
Long be the day that gave you birth Sacred to friendfhip, wit, and mirth; Late dying may you cast a lhred Of your rich mantle o'er my head ;
To bear with dignity my sorrow, One day alone, then die to-morrow.
TO S T E L L A,
ON HER BIRTH-D. A Y, 1721-6.
HILE, Stella, to your lasting praiso
The Muse her annual tribute payss.
While I afsign myself a talk
Which you expect, but scorn to.ak;
If I perform this talk with pain, -
Let me of partial fate complain ;:
You every year the debt enlarge,.
I grow less equal to the charge :
each virtue brighter shines, .
But my poetic vein declines ;
My harp will soon in vain be strung, -
And all your virtues left unsung :
For none among the upstart race
Of Poets dare assume my place ; :
Your worth will be to them unknowng
They must have Stella's of their own;
And thus, my stock of wit decay'd,,
I dying leave the debt unpaid,
Unless Delany, as my heir;
Will answer for the whole arrear.
ON THE GREAT BURIED BOTTLE.
BY DR. DELANY. AMPHORA, quæ mcertum linguis,lătumque revises
Arentem dominum; fit tibi terra levis. Tu quoque depositum ferves, neve opprime, marmor ; Amphora non meruit tam pretiosa mori.