Epitaph by the Same

Hoc tumulata jacet proles Lenaea sepulchro,Immortale genus, nee peritura jacet;Quin oritura iterum, matris concreditur alvo:Bis natum referunt te quoque, Bacche Pater.

Resolv'd my annual verse to pay,By duty bound, on Stella's day,Furnish'd with paper, pens, and ink,I gravely sat me down to think:I bit my nails, and scratch'd 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 timeTo 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 say,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 Sheridan the rogue would sneer,And swear it does not always follow,That semel'n anno ridet Apollo.I have assur'd them twenty times,That Phoebus help'd 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 license;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 ICan only be a stander by.Apollo, having thought a little,Return'd this answer to a tittle.Though you should live like old Methusalem,I furnish hints and you shall 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 stunn'd with such a medley,Dean White, Dean Daniel, and Dean Smedley,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 pass'd among the crowd.But now, your danger to prevent,You must apply to Mrs. Brent;For she, as priestess, knows the ritesWherein the god of earth delights.First, nine ways looking, let her standWith an old poker in her hand;Let her describe a circle roundIn Saunders' cellar on the ground:A spade let prudent Archy hold,And with discretion dig the mould.Let Stella look with watchful eye,Rebecca, Ford, and Grattans by.Behold the bottle, where it liesWith neck elated toward the skies!The god of winds and god of fireDid to its wondrous birth conspire;And Bacchus for the poet's usePour'd in a strong inspiring juice.See! as you raise it from its tomb,It drags behind a spacious womb,And in the spacious womb containsA sov'reign 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 kneesWith caution drain it from the lees;The Muse will at your call appear,With Stella's praise to crown the year.

Don Carlos, in a merry spight,Did Stella to his house invite:He entertain'd her half a yearWith generous wines and costly cheer.Don Carlos made her chief director,That she might o'er the servants hector.In half a week the dame grew nice,Got all things at the highest price:Now at the table head she sits,Presented with the nicest bits:She look'd on partridges with scorn,Except they tasted of the corn:A haunch of ven'son made her sweat,Unless it had the right fumette.Don Carlos earnestly would beg,"Dear Madam, try this pigeon's leg;"Was happy, when he could prevailTo make her only touch a quail.Through candle-light she view'd the wine,To see that ev'ry glass was fine.At last, grown prouder than the devilWith feeding high, and treatment civil,Don Carlos now began to findHis malice work as he design'd.The winter sky began to frown:Poor Stella must pack off to town;From purling streams and fountains bubbling,To Liffey's stinking tide in Dublin:From wholesome exercise and airTo sossing in an easy-chair:From stomach sharp, and hearty feeding,To piddle like a lady breeding:From ruling there the household singly.To be directed here by Dingley:From every day a lordly banquet,To half a joint, and God be thank it:From every meal Pontac in plenty,To half a pint one day in twenty:From Ford attending at her call,To visits of Archdeacon Wall:From Ford, who thinks of nothing mean,To the poor doings of the Dean:From growing richer with good cheer,To running out by starving here.But now arrives the dismal day;She must return to Ormond Quay.The coachman stopt; she look'd, and sworeThe rascal had mistook the door:At coming in, you saw her stoop;The entry brush'd against her hoop:Each moment rising in her airs,She curst the narrow winding stairs:Began a thousand faults to spy;The ceiling hardly six feet high;The smutty wainscot full of cracks:And half the chairs with broken backs:Her quarter's out at Lady-day;She vows she will no longer stayIn lodgings like a poor Grisette,While there are houses to be let.Howe'er, to keep her spirits up,She sent for company to sup:When all the while you might remark,She strove in vain to ape Wood Park.Two bottles call'd for, (half her store,The cupboard could contain but four:)A supper worthy of herself,Five nothings in five plates of delf.Thus for a week the farce went on;When, all her country savings gone,She fell into her former scene,Small beer, a herring, and the Dean.Thus far in jest: though now, I fear,You think my jesting too severe;But poets, when a hint is new,Regard not whether false or true:Yet raillery gives no offence,Where truth has not the least pretence;Nor can be more securely placedThan on a nymph of Stella's taste.I must confess your wine and vittleI was too hard upon a little:Your table neat, your linen fine;And, though in miniature, you shine:Yet, when you sigh to leave Wood Park,The scene, the welcome, and the spark,To languish in this odious town,And pull your haughty stomach down,We think you quite mistake the case,The virtue lies not in the place:For though my raillery were true,A cottage is Wood Park with you.

"With entremets to piddle with at hand."