Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/174

162 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 topicks 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-soals, 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, Phyllis, 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; Bright Phyilis 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