Stella’s Birth-Day 1719-20
All travelers 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:
And though the painting grows decayed
The house will never lose its trade;
Nay, though the treacherous rascal Thomas
Hangs a new Angel two doors from us
As fine as daubers’ hands can make it
In hopes that strangers may mistake it,
They 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, humor, wit, and sense,
And puts them to so small expense,
Their minds 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 scraps and leavings to be fed.
Then, Cloe, still go on to prate
Of thirty-six, and thirty-eight;
Pursue thy trade of scandal picking,
Thy hints that Stella is no chicken,
Your innuendos when you tell us
That Stella loves to talk with fellows;
But let me warn thee to believe
A truth for which thy soul should grieve:
That, should you live to see the day
When Stella’s locks must all be gray,
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 forever 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.
