To Stella on Her Birthday, Written AD 1721–2

While, Stella, to your lasting praise
The muse her annual tribute pays,
While I assign myself a task
Which you expect, but scorn to ask;
If I perform this task with pain
Let me of partial fate complain;
You, every year the debt enlarge,
I grow less equal to the charge:
In you, each virtue brighter shines,
But my poetic vein declines.
My harp will soon in vain be strung,
And all your virtues left unsung:
For, none among the upstart race
Of poets dare assume my place;
Your worth will be to them unknown,
They must have Stellas of their own;
And thus, my stock of wit decayed;
I dying leave the debt unpaid,
Unless Delany as my heir,
Will answer for the whole arrear.
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