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 Mfvius, 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, 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 Ftna'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    

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