She answers, in her usual style,

"The cook must keep it back a while:
I never can have time to dress,
No woman breathing takes up less;
I'm hurried so, it makes me sick;
I wish the dinner at Old Nick."
At table now she acts her part,
Has all the dinner cant by heart:
"I thought we were to dine alone,
My dear; for sure, if I had known
This company would come to-day-
But really 'tis my spouse's way!
He's so unkind, he never sends
To tell when he invites his friends:
I wish ye may but have enough!"
And while with all this paltry stuff
She sits tormenting every guest,
Nor gives her tongue one moment's rest,
In phrases batter'd, stale, and trite,
Which modern ladies call polite;
You see the booby husband sit
In admiration at her wit!

But let me now a while survey
Our madain o'er her evening tea;
Surrounded with her noisy clans
Of prudes, coquettes, and harridans;
When, frighted at the clamorous crew,
Away the God of Silence flew,
And fair Discretion left the place,
And Modesty with blushing face;
Now enters overweening Pride,
And Scandal, ever gaping wide,
Hypocrisy with frown severe,
Scurrility with gibing air;

Rude

Rude Laughter seeming like to burst,
And Malice always judging worst;
And Vanity with pocket glass,

And Impudence with front of brass;
And studied Affectation came,

Each limb and feature out of frame;
While Ignorance, with brain of lead,
Flew hovering o'er each female head.

Why should I ask of thee, my Muse,
A hundred tongues, as poets use,
When, to give every dame her due,
A hundred thousand were too few?
Or how should I, alas! relate

The sum of all their senseless prate,
Their inuendoes, hints, and slanders,
Their meaning lewd, and double entendres?
Now comes the general scandal charge;
What some invent, the rest enlarge;

And, "Madam, if it be a lie,

You have the tale as cheap as I;

I must conceal my author's name :
But now, 'tis known to common fame."
Say, foolish females, bold and blind,
Say, by what fatal turn of mind,
Are you on vices most severe,
Wherein yourselves have greatest share?
Thus every fool herself deludes ;
The prudes condemn the absent prudes:
Mopsa, who stinks her spouse to death,
Accuses Chloe's tainted breath;
Hircina, rank with sweat, presumes
To censure Phyllis for perfumes;
While crooked Cynthia, sneering, says,
That Florimel wears iron stays:

Chloe,

Chloe, of every coxcomb jealous,
Admires how girls can talk with fellows
And, full of indignation, frets,

That women should be such coquettes:
Iris, for scandal most notorious,

Cries, "Lord, the world is so censorious !"
And Rufa, with her combs of lead,
Whispers that Sappho's hair is red:
Aura, whose tongue you hear a mile hence,
Talks half a day in praise of silence:
And Sylvia, full of inward guilt,
Calls Amoret an arrant jilt.

Now voices over voices rise,
While each to be the loudest vies:
They contradict, affirm, dispute,
No single tongue one moment mute;
All mad to speak, and none to hearken,
They set the very lapdog barking;
Their chattering makes a louder din
Than fishwives o'er a cup of gin;
Not schoolboys at a barring out
Rais'd ever such incessant rout:
The jumbling particles of matter
In chaos made not such a clatter;
Far less the rabble roar and rail,
When drunk with sour election ale.
Nor do they trust their tongues alone,
But speak a language of their own;
Can read a nod, a shrug, a look,
Far better than a printed book;
Convey a libel in a frown,
And wink a reputation down:
Or, by the tossing of the fan,
Describe the lady and the man.

But

But see, the female club disbands, Each twenty visits on her hands. Now all alone poor madam sits In vapours and hysteric fits: "And was not Tom this morning sent? I'd lay my life he never went : Past six, and not a living soul ! I might by this have won a vole." A dreadful interval of spleen! How shall we pass the time between ? Here, Betty, let me take my drops; And feel my pulse, I know it stops: This head of mine, lord, how it swims! And such a pain in all my limbs !" "Dear madam, try to take a nap"But now they hear a footman's rap: "Go, run, and light the ladies up: It must be one before we sup."

The table, cards, and counters, set,
And all the gamester ladies met,
Her spleen and fits recover'd quite,
Our madam can sit-up all night;
"Whoever comes, I'm not within."-
Quadrille's the word, and so begin.

How can the Muse her aid impart,
Unskill'd in all the terms of art?
Or in harmonious numbers put
The deal, the shuffle, and the cut?
The superstitious whims relate,
That fill a female gamester's pate?
What agony of soul she feels
To see a knave's inverted heels!
She draws up card by card, to find
Good fortune peeping from behind ;

With panting heart, and earnest eyes,
In hope to see spadillo rise;

In vain, alas! her hope is fed;
She draws an ace, and sees it red;
In ready counter's never pays,

But pawns her snuff box, rings, and keys;
Ever with some new fancy struck,
Tries twenty charms to mend her luck.
"This morning, when the parson came,
I said I should not win a game.

This odious chair, how came I stuck in't?
I think I never had good luck in't.
I'm so uneasy in my stays;

Your fan a moment, if you please.
Stand farther, girl, or get you gone;
I always lose when you look on."
"Lord! madam, you have lost codille:
I never saw you play so ill.”

"Nay, madam, give me leave to say,
'Twas you that threw the game away :
When lady Tricksey play'd a four,
You took it with a matadore;
I saw you touch your wedding ring
Before my lady call'd a king;
You spoke a word began with H,
And I know whom you mean to teach,
Because you held the king of hearts;
Fie, madam, leave these little arts."
"That's not so bad as one that rubs
Her chair to call the king of clubs;
And makes her partner understand
A matadore is in her hand."
"Madam, you have no cause to flounce,
I swear I saw you thrice renounce."

"And