But fee, where Norab with the Sowins comes-
Then let us rife, and reft our weary Bums.
Written in the YEAR 1728.
T was a most unfriendly Part
In you, who ought to know my Heart,
Are well acquainted with my Zeal
For all the Female Commonweal:
How cou'd it come into your Mind,
To pitch on me, of all Mankind,
Against the Sex to write a Satyr,
And brand me for a Woman-Hater?
On me, who think them all fo fair,
They rival Venus to a Hair;
Their Virtues never ceas'd to fing,
Since first I learn'd to tune a String.
Methinks I hear the Ladies cry,
Will he his Character belye?
Must never our Misfortunes end?
And have we loft our only Friend?
Ah lovely Nymphs, remove your Fears,
No more let fall those precious Tears.
Sooner fhall, &c.
[Here several Verses are omitted.]
The Hound be hunted by the Hare,
Than I turn Rebel to the Fair.
"TWAS you engag'd me first to write,
Then gave the Subject out of Spite:
The Journal of a modern Dame
Is by my Promife what you claim:
My Word is past, I must submit ;
And yet perhaps you may be bir.
I but tranfcribe, for not a Line
Of all the Satyr fhall be mine.
COMPELL'D by you to tag in Rhimes, The common Slanders of the Times, VOL. II.
Of modern Times; the Guilt is yours,
And me my Innocence secures.
UNWILLING Mufe begin thy Lay, The Annals of a Female Day.
By Nature turn'd to play the Rake-well,
(As we fhall fhew you in the Sequel)
The modern Dame is wak'd by Noon,
Some Authors fay, not quite so soon;
Becaufe, though fore against her Will,
She fat all Night up at Quadrill.
She stretches, gapes, unglues her Eyes,
And asks if it be time to rife;
Of Head-ach, and the Spleen complains;
And then to cool her heated Brains,
(Her Night-gown and her Slippers brought her,)
Takes a large Dram of Citron-Water.
Then to her Glass; and Betty, pray
Don't I look frightfully To-day? "But, was it not confounded hard? "Well, if I ever touch a Card:
"Four Mattadores, and lofe Codill!
Depend upon't, I never will.
"But run to Tom, and bid him fix
The Ladies here To-night by Six." Madam, the Goldsmith waits below, He fays, his Business is to know
If you'll redeem the Silver Cup
He keeps in Pawn?" Why, fhew him up.
Your Dreffing-Plate, he'll be content
To take, for Intereft Cent. per Cent.
And, Madam, there's my Lady Spade
Hath fent this Letter by her Maid.
Well, I remember what she won;
"And hath the fent fo foon to dun?
"Here, carry down thofe ten Piftoles
"My Husband left to pay for Coals:
« I thank my Stars they all are light;
"And I may have Revenge To-night."
Now, loit'ring o'er her Tea and Cream;
She enters on her ufual Theme;
Her laft Night's ill Succefs repeats;
Calls Lady Spade a Hundred Cheats
She flipt Spadillo in her Breaft,
Then thought to turn it to a Jest.
There's Mrs. Cut and fhe combine,
And to each other give the Sign.
Through every Game purfues her Tale,
Like Hunters o'er their Evening Ale.
Now to another Scene give Place,
Enter the Folks with Silks and Lace:
Fresh Matter for a World of Chat;
Right Indian this, right Macklin that;
Obferve this Pattern; there's a Stuff!
I can have Cuftomers enough.
Dear Madam, you are grown fo hard,
This Lace is worth Twelve Pounds a Yard:
Madam, if there be Truth in Man,
I never fold fo cheap a Fan.
THIS Bufinefs of Importance o'er, And Madam almost drefs'd by Four; The Footman, in his ufual Phrafe,
Comes up with," Madam, Dinner stays;
She answers in her ufual Style,
"The Cook must keep it back a while;
"I never can have Time to drefs,
"No Woman breathing takes up less;
"I'm hurry'd fo, it makes me fick,
"I with the Dinner at Old Nick."
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