As, when a lofty pile is raised,
We never hear the workmen praised,
Who bring the lime, or place the stones. 
But all admire Inigo Jones: 
So, if this pile of scatter’d rhymes
Should be approved in aftertimes;
If it both pleases and endures,
The merit and the praise are yours. 
  Thou, Stella, wert no longer young,
When first for thee my harp was strung,
Without one word of Cupid’s darts,
Of killing eyes, or bleeding hearts;
With friendship and esteem possest,
I ne’er admitted Love a guest. 
  In all the habitudes of life,
The friend, the mistress, and the wife,
Variety we still pursue,
In pleasure seek for something new;
Or else, comparing with the rest,
Take comfort that our own is best;
The best we value by the worst,
As tradesmen show their trash at first;
But his pursuits are at an end,
Whom Stella chooses for a friend. 
A poet starving in a garret,
Conning all topics like a parrot,
Invokes his mistress and his Muse,
And stays at home for want of shoes: 
Should but his Muse descending drop
A slice of bread and mutton-chop;
Or kindly, when his credit’s out,
Surprise him with a pint of stout;
Or patch his broken stocking soles;
Or send him in a peck of coals;
Exalted in his mighty mind,
He flies and leaves the stars behind;
Counts all his labours amply paid,
Adores her for the timely aid. 
  Or, should a porter make inquiries
For Chloe, Sylvia, Phillis, Iris;
Be told the lodging, lane, and sign,
The bowers that hold those nymphs divine;
Fair Chloe would perhaps be found
With footmen tippling under ground;
The charming Sylvia beating flax,
Her shoulders mark’d with bloody tracks;[1]
Bright Phillis mending ragged smocks: 
And radiant Iris in the pox. 
These are the goddesses enroll’d
In Curll’s collection, new and old,
Whose scoundrel fathers would not know ’em,
If they should meet them in a poem. 
  True poets can depress and raise,
Are lords of infamy and praise;
They are not scurrilous in satire,
Nor will in panegyric flatter. 
Unjustly poets we asperse;
Truth shines the brighter clad in verse,
And all the fictions they pursue
Do but insinuate what is true. 
  Now, should my praises owe their truth
To beauty, dress, or paint, or youth,
What stoics call without our power,
They could not be ensured an hour;
’Twere grafting on an annual stock,
That must our expectation mock,
And, making one luxuriant shoot,
Die the next year for want of root: 
Before I could my verses bring,
Perhaps you’re quite another thing. 
  So Maevius, when he drain’d his skull
To celebrate some suburb trull,
His similes in order set,
And every crambo[2] he could get;
Had gone through all the common-places
Worn out by wits, who rhyme on faces;
Before he could his poem close,