The lovely nymph had lost her nose. 
  Your virtues safely I commend;
They on no accidents depend: 
Let malice look with all her eyes,
She dares not say the poet lies. 
  Stella, when you these lines transcribe,
Lest you should take them for a bribe,
Resolved to mortify your pride,
I’ll here expose your weaker side. 
  Your spirits kindle to a flame,
Moved by the lightest touch of blame;
And when a friend in kindness tries
To show you where your error lies,
Conviction does but more incense;
Perverseness is your whole defence;
Truth, judgment, wit, give place to spite,
Regardless both of wrong and right;
Your virtues all suspended wait,
Till time has open’d reason’s gate;
And, what is worse, your passion bends
Its force against your nearest friends,
Which manners, decency, and pride,
Have taught from you the world to hide;
In vain; for see, your friend has brought
To public light your only fault;
And yet a fault we often find
Mix’d in a noble, generous mind: 
And may compare to AEtna’s fire,
Which, though with trembling, all admire;
The heat that makes the summit glow,
Enriching all the vales below. 
Those who, in warmer climes, complain
From Phoebus’ rays they suffer pain,
Must own that pain is largely paid
By generous wines beneath a shade. 
  Yet, when I find your passions rise,
And anger sparkling in your eyes,
I grieve those spirits should be spent,
For nobler ends by nature meant. 
One passion, with a different turn,
Makes wit inflame, or anger burn: 
So the sun’s heat, with different powers,
Ripens the grape, the liquor sours: 
Thus Ajax, when with rage possest,
By Pallas breathed into his breast,
His valour would no more employ,
Which might alone have conquer’d Troy;
But, blinded by resentment, seeks
For vengeance on his friends the Greeks. 
  You think this turbulence of blood
From stagnating preserves the flood,
Which, thus fermenting by degrees,
Exalts the spirits, sinks the lees. 
Stella, for once you reason wrong;
For, should this ferment last too long,
By time subsiding, you may find
Nothing but acid left behind;
From passion you may then be freed,
When peevishness and spleen succeed. 
Say, Stella, when you copy next,
Will you keep strictly to the text? 
Dare you let these reproaches stand,
And to your failing set your hand? 
Or, if these lines your anger fire,
Shall they in baser flames expire? 
Whene’er they burn, if burn they must,
They’ll prove my accusation just.

[Footnote 1:  At Bridewell; see vol. i, “A Beautiful Young Nymph,” at p. 201.—­W.  E. B.]

[Footnote 3:  A cant word for a rhyme.—­W.  E. B.]

TO STELLA VISITING ME IN MY SICKNESS 1720