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 pass 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;
