The Battle of the Books and other Short Pieces Part 6

While thus Cadenus entertains Vanessa in exalted strains, The nymph in sober words intreats A truce with all sublime conceits.

For why such raptures, flights, and fancies, To her who durst not read romances; In lofty style to make replies, Which he had taught her to despise?

But when her tutor will affect Devotion, duty, and respect, He fairly abdicates his throne, The government is now her own; He has a forfeiture incurred, She vows to take him at his word, And hopes he will not take it strange If both should now their stations change The nymph will have her turn, to be The tutor; and the pupil he: Though she already can discern Her scholar is not apt to learn; Or wants capacity to reach The science she designs to teach; 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 bus'ness, whether They temper love and books together; Must never to mankind be told, Nor shall the conscious muse unfold.

Meantime 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 crossed her first intent, Though her design was not obtained, Yet had she much experience gained; And, by the project vainly tried, Could better now the cause decide.

She gave due notice that both parties, _Coram Regina prox' die Martis_, Should at their peril without fail Come and appear, and save their bail.

All met, and silence thrice proclaimed, One lawyer to each side was named.

The judge discovered 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 gathered 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 pet.i.tion (humbly showing That women were not worth the wooing, And that unless the s.e.x 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 s.e.x designed, Who never could one lover find, She saw her favour was misplaced; The follows 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 ordered to dismiss The court, so made his last O yes!

The G.o.ddess would no longer wait, But rising from her chair of state, Left all below at six and seven, Harnessed her doves, and flew to Heaven.

STELLA'S BIRTHDAY, 1718.

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.

Oh, would it please the G.o.ds 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 l.u.s.tre 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 lack her swain), To split my wors.h.i.+p too in twain.

STELLA'S BIRTHDAY, 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 decayed, The house will never lose its trade: Nay, though the treach'rous tapster Thomas Hangs a new angel two doors from us, As fine as daubers' 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 cracked (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 expense; 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 Cloe's Head, With sc.r.a.ps and leavings to be fed.

Then Cloe, 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 innuendoes 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 grey, When age must print a furrowed 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 pa.s.s your door, And crowd to Stella's at fourscore.

STELLA'S BIRTHDAY.

_A great bottle of wine, long buried, being that day dug up_. _1722_.

Resolved my annual verse to pay, By duty bound, on Stella's day; Furnished with paper, pens, and ink, I gravely sat me down to think: I bit my nails, and scratched my head, But found my wit and fancy fled; Or, if with more than usual pain, A thought came slowly from my brain, It cost me Lord knows how much time To shape it into sense and rhyme; And, what was yet a greater curse, Long-thinking made my fancy worse

Forsaken by th' inspiring nine, I waited at Apollo's shrine; I told him what the world would sa If Stella were unsung to-day; How I should hide my head for shame, When both the Jacks and Robin came; How Ford would frown, how Jim would leer, How Sh---r the rogue would sneer, And swear it does not always follow, That _Semel'n anno ridet_ Apollo.

I have a.s.sured them twenty times, That Phoebus helped me in my rhymes, Phoebus inspired me from above, And he and I were hand and glove.

But finding me so dull and dry since, They'll call it all poetic licence.

And when I brag of aid divine, Think Eusden's right as good as mine.

Nor do I ask for Stella's sake; 'Tis my own credit lies at stake.

And Stella will be sung, while I Can only be a stander by.

Apollo having thought a little, Returned this answer to a t.i.ttle.

Tho' you should live like old Methusalem, I furnish hints, and you should use all 'em, You yearly sing as she grows old, You'd leave her virtues half untold.

But to say truth, such dulness reigns Through the whole set of Irish Deans; I'm daily stunned with such a medley, Dean W---, Dean D---l, and Dean S---; That let what Dean soever come, My orders are, I'm not at home; And if your voice had not been loud, You must have pa.s.sed among the crowd.

But, now your danger to prevent, You must apply to Mrs. Brent, {2} For she, as priestess, knows the rites Wherein the G.o.d of Earth delights.

First, nine ways looking, let her stand With an old poker in her hand; Let her describe a circle round In Saunder's {3} cellar on the ground A spade let prudent Archy {4} hold, And with discretion dig the mould; Let Stella look with watchful eye, Rebecea, Ford, and Grattons by.

Behold the bottle, where it lies With neck elated tow'rds the skies!

The G.o.d of winds, and G.o.d of fire, Did to its wondrous birth conspire; And Bacchus for the poet's use Poured in a strong inspiring juice: See! as you raise it from its tomb, It drags behind a s.p.a.cious womb, And in the s.p.a.cious womb contains A sovereign med'cine for the brains.

You'll find it soon, if fate consents; If not, a thousand Mrs. Brents, Ten thousand Archys arm'd with spades, May dig in vain to Pluto's shades.

From thence a plenteous draught infuse, And boldly then invoke the muse (But first let Robert on his knees With caution drain it from the lees); The muse will at your call appear, With Stella's praise to crown the year.

STELLA'S BIRTHDAY, 1724.

As when a beauteous nymph decays, We say she's past her dancing days; So poets lose their feet by time, And can no longer dance in rhyme.

Your annual bard had rather chose To celebrate your birth in prose; Yet merry folks who want by chance A pair to make a country dance, Call the old housekeeper, and get her To fill a place, for want of better; While Sheridan is off the hooks, And friend Delany at his books, That Stella may avoid disgrace, Once more the Dean supplies their place.

Beauty and wit, too sad a truth, Have always been confined to youth; The G.o.d of wit, and beauty's queen, He twenty-one, and she fifteen; No poet ever sweetly sung.

Unless he were like Phoebus, young; Nor ever nymph inspired to rhyme, Unless like Venus in her prime.

At fifty-six, if this be true, Am I a poet fit for you; Or at the age of forty-three, Are you a subject fit for me?