THE FIVE LADIES' ANSWER TO THE

BEAU.

BY DR. SHERIDAN.

WITH THE WIG AND WINGS AT HIS HEAD,

YOU little scribbling beau,

What demon made you write?
Because to write you know
As much as you can fight.

For compliment so scurvy,
I wish we had you here;
We'd turn you topsyturvy
Into a mug of beer.

You thought to make a farce on
The man and place we chose ;
We're sure a single parson

Is worth a hundred beaux.

And you would make us vassals,
Good Mr. Wig and Wings,

To silver clocks and tassels;

You would, you Thing of Things!

Because around your cane

And

A ring of diamonds is set;
you, in some by lane,
Have gain'd a paltry grisette:

Shall we, of sense refin'd,
Your trifling nonsense bear,

As noisy as the wind,

As empty as the air?

We

We hate your empty prattle;

And vow and swear 'tis true,
There's more in one child's rattle,
Than twenty fops like you.

THE BEAU'S REPLY

TO THE FIVE LADIES' ANSWER.

WHY, how now dapper black,
I smell your gown and cassock,
As strong upon your back,

As Tisdal smells of a sock.

To write such scurvy stuff!
Fine ladies never do't;
I know you well enough,

And eke your cloven foot.

Fine ladies, when they write,

Nor scold, nor keep a splutter:

Their verses give delight,

As soft and sweet as butter.

But Satan never saw

Such haggard lines as these:

They stick athwart my maw,
As bad as Suffolk cheese.

* A clergyman in the North of Ireland, who had made proposals of marriage to Stella. F.

THE JOURNAL OF A MODERN LADY.

IN A LETTER TO A PERSON OF QUALITY.

SIR, 'twas a most unfriendly part
In you, who ought to know my heart,
Are well acquainted with my zeal
For all the female commonweal--
How could it come into your mind
To pitch on me, of all mankind,
Against the sex to write a satire,
And brand me for a womanhater?
On me, who think them all so fair,
They rival Venus to a hair;
Their virtues never ceas'd to sing,
Since first I learn'd to tune a string?
Methinks I hear the ladies cry,
Will he his character belie?
Must never our misfortunes end?
And have we lost our only friend?
Ah, lovely nymphs! remove your fears,
No more let fall those precious tears.
Sooner shall, &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 promise, what you

claim.

1728.

My

My word is past, I must submit ;
And yet perhaps you may be bit,
I but transcribe; for not a line
Of all the satire shall be mine.
Compell'd by you to tag in rhymes
The common slanders of the times,
Of modern times, the guilt is yours,
And me my innocence secures.
Unwilling Muse, begin thy lay,
The annals of a female day.

By nature turn'd to play the rake well,
(As we shall show you in the sequel)
The modern dame is wak'd by noon,
(Some authors say not quite so soon)
Because, though sore against her will,
She sat all night up at quadrille.
She stretches, gapes, unglues her eyes,
And asks, if it be time to rise;

Of headach and the spleen complains;
And then, to cool her heated brains,
Her nightgown 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 matadores, and lose codille!
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 says, his business is to know

If you'll redeem the silver cup

He keeps in pawn ?"-"First, show him up.'

Your

"Your dressing-plate he'll be content
To take, for interest cent. per cent.
And, madam, there's my lady Spade
Has sent this letter by her maid.”
Well, I remember what she won;
And has she sent so soon to dun?
Here, carry down these ten pistoles
My husband left to pay for coals:
I thank my stars, they all are light ;
And I may have revenge to-night."
Now, loitering o'er her tea and cream,
She enters on her usual theme;
Her last night's ill-success repeats,
Calls lady Spade a hundred cheats:
"She slipt spadillo in her breast,
Then thought to turn it to a jest :
There's Mrs. Cut and she combine,
And to each other give the sign."
Through every game pursues 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 Mechlin that:
"Observe this pattern; there's a stuff;
I can have customers enough.

Dear madam, you are grown so hard-
This lace is worth twelve pounds a yard :
Madam, if there be truth in man,

I never sold so cheap a fan.

This business of importance o'er,
And madam almost dress'd by four;
The footman in his usual phrase,
Comes up with, "Madam, dinner stays."

She