You're now in your prime,
Make ufe of your time.
Confider, before

You come to threescore,
How the buffies will fleer
Where'er you appear:
"That filly old puss
Would fain be like us.
What a figure she made
In her tarnish'd brocade !"
And then he grows mild:
Come, be a good child:
If you are inclin'd
To polith your mind,
Be ador'd by the men
Till threefcore and ten,
And kill with the spleen
The jades of fixteen;
I'll show you the way:
Read fix hours a day.
The wits will frequent ye,
And think you but twenty.
Thus was I drawn in;
Forgive me my fin.
At breakfaft he'll ask
An account of my task.
Put a word out of joint,
Or mifs but a point,
He rages and frets,
His manners forgets;
And, as I am ferious,
Is very imperious.
No book for delight
Must come in my fight;
But, inftead of new plays,
Dull Bacon's Effays,
And pore every day on
That nafty Pantheon.
If I be not a drudge,
Let all the world judge.
'Twere better be blind,
Than thus be confin'd.

But, while in an ill tone,
I murder poor Milton,
The Dean, you will fwear,
Is at ftudy or prayer.
He's all the day fauntering,
With labourers bantering,
Among his colleagues,

A parcel of Teagues,
(Whom he brings in among us,
And bribes with mundungus).
Hail fellow, well met,

All dirty and wet:

Find out, if you can,
Who's mafter, who 's man;
Who makes the best figure,
The Dean or the digger;
And which is the best
At cracking a jest.
How proudly he talks
Of zigzacks and walks;
And all the day raves
Of cradles and caves;
And beafts of his feats,
His grottos and feats;

Shews all his gew-gaws,
And gapes for applause;
A fine occupation
For one in his ftation!
A hole where a rabbit
Would fcorn to inhabit,
Dug out in an hour;
He calls it a bower.
But, oh! how we laugh
To fee a wild calf
Come, driven by heat,
And foul the green feat;
Or run helter-skelter
To his arbour, for fhelter,
Where all goes to ruin
The Dean has been doing:
The girls of the village
Come flocking for pillage,
Pull down the fine briers
And thorns, to make fires;
But yet are fo kind

To leave fomething behind:
No more need be faid on 't,
I fmell when I tread on 't.
Dear friend, doctor Jenny,
If I could but win ye,
Or Walmsley or Whaley,
To come hither daily,
Since Fortune, my foe,
Will needs have it so,
That I'm, by her frowns,
Condemn'd to black gowns;
No Squire to be found
The neighbourhood round
(For, under the rose,

I would rather choose those);
If your wives will permit ye,
Come here, out of pity,
To ease a poor lady,
And beg her a play-day.
So may you be feen
No more in the spleen!
May Walmsley give wine,
Like a hearty divine!
May Whaley difgrace
Dull Daniel's whey-face!
And may your three fpoufes
Let you lie at friends' houses!

DERMOT.

Oh, could I earn for thee, my lovely lafs, A pair of *brogues to bear thee dry to mass! But fee, where Norah with the fowins comes Then let us rife, and reft our weary bums.

ON THE

FIVE LADIES AT SOT'S-HOLE†, WITH THE DOCTOR AT THEIR HEAD. N. B. The Ladies treated the Docler. Sent as from an OFFICER in the ARMY. 1728. AIR ladies, number five,

With little Tom contrive

To feaft on ale and fteaks; While he fits by a-grinning,

To fee you fafe in Sot's-hole, Set up with greafy lipen,

And neither mugs nor pots whole : Alas! I never thought

A priest would please your palate ; Befides, I'll hold a groat,

He'll put you in a ballad;

Where I fhall fee your faces

On paper daub'd fo foul,
They 'll be no more like Graces,
Than Venus like an owl.
And we fhall take you rather
To be a midnight pack
Of witches met together,

With Beelzebub in black.
It fills my heart with woe,
To think, fuch ladies f.ne
Shall be reduc'd fo low

To treat a dull Divine.
Be by a Parfon cheated!

Had you been cunning ftagers,
You might yourfelves be treated
By Captains and by Majors.
See how corruption grows,
While mothers, daughters, aunts,
Instead of powder'd beaux,
From pulpits choose gallants!
If we, who wear our wigs
With fan-tail and with fnake,
Are bubbled thus by prigs;
Z-ds! who would be a rake?
Had I a heart to fight,

I'd knock the Doctor down:
Or could I read or write,

Egad! I'd wear a gown.
Then leave him to his birch§;
And at The Rofe on Sunday,
The parfon fafe at church,
I'll treat you with burguhdy.

*Shees with flat low heels.
† An alehouse in Dublin, famous for beef-fleaks,
Dr. Thomas Sheridan.

Dr. Sheridan was a fenool-mafter.

THE FIVE LADIES' ANSWER

TO THE BEAU

With the WIG and WINGS at his HEAD,

You

OU little fcribbling beau,
What demon made you write?
Because to write you know
As much as you can fight.
For compliment fo fcurvy,
I wish we had you here;
We'd turn you topsy-turvy
Into a mug of beer.

You thought to make a farce on
The man and place we chose;
We're fure a fingle Parson

Is worth an hundred Beaux.
And you would make us vaffals,
Good Mr. Wig and Wings,
To filver-clocks and taffels ;

You would, you Things of Things! Becaufe around your cane

A ring of diamonds is fet; And you, in fome bye-lane, Have gain'd a paltry grizette; Shall we, of fense refin❜d,

Your trifling nonfenfe bear,
As noify as the wind,

As empty as the a'r?
We hate your empty prattle;
And vow and fwear 'tis true,
There's more in one child's rattle
Than twenty tops like you.

THE BEAU'S REPLY

TO THE

It my heart,

was a most unfriendly part

FIVE LADIES' ANSWER.

WHY

THY, how now, dapper Black!
I fmell your gown and caffock,

As ftrong upon your back,

As Tifdall fmells of a fock.

To write fuch fcurvy ftuff!
Fine Ladies never do 't;
I know you well enough,

And eke your cloven foot.
Fine Ladies, when they write,
Nor fcold, nor keep a splutter:
Their verfes give delight,

As foft and fweet as butter.

But Satan never faw

Such haggard lines as these : They ftick athwart my maw, As bad as Suffolk-cheefe,

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

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 fex to write a fatire,
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 ftring?
Methinks I hear the ladies cry,
Will he his character belye?

Muft never our misfortunes end?"
And have we laft our only friend?
Ah, lovely nymphs, remove your fears,
No more let fall thofe precious tears.
Sooner fhall, &c.

[Here feveral verses are emitted.]
The hound be hunted by the hare,
Than I turn rebel to the fair.

'Twas you engag'd me firit to write,
Then gave the fubject out of fpite:
The journal of a modern dame
Is by my promife what you claim
My word is paft, I must submit ;
And yet perhaps you may be bit.
I but tranfcribe; for not a line
Of all the fatire shall be mine.
Compell'd by you to tag in rhymes
The common flanders of the times,
Of modern times, the guilt is yours,
And ine my innocence fecures.
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 fequel),
The modern dame is wak'd by noon
(Some authors fay, not quite fo foon),
Becaufe, though fore against her will,
She fate all night up at quadrille.
She ftretches, gapes, unglues her eyes,
And asks if it be time to rise;

Of head-ach and the spleen complains;
And then, to cool her heated brains,
Her night-gown and her flippers brought her,
Takes a large dram of citron-water.
Then to her glafs; 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 cotille!
"Depend upon 't, I never will.
"But run to Tom, and bid him fix
"The ladies here to-night by fix."
"Madam, the goldfmith waits below;
"He fays, "His business is to know

1

« If you'll redeem the filver cup "He keeps in pawn?"- "First, fhew him up." "Your dreffing-plate he 'll be content "To take, for intereft cent, jer cent. "And, Madam, there 's my lady Spade "Hath fent this letter by her maid." "Well, I remember what he won; "And hath the fent fo foon to dun? "Here, carry down thofe ten pistoles, "My husband left to pay for coals: "I think my ftars, they all are light; "And I may have revenge to-night.” Now, loitering o'er her tea and cream, She enters on her ufual theme; Her last night's ill fuccefs repeats, Calls lady Spade a hundred cheats: "She flipt padille in her breaft, "Then thought to turn it to a jeft: "There's Mrs. Cut and the combine, "And to each other give the fign." Through every game purfues her tale, Li e hunters o'er their evening ale.

Now to another fcene give place; Enter the folks with flks and lace: Fresh matter for a world of chat, Right Indian this, right Mechlin that: "Obferve this pattern; there's a stuff; "I can have customers 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 oer, And madam almost dreis'd by four; The footman, in his ufual phrafe, Comes up with, "Madam, dianer stays." She answers, in her ufual style, "The cook muft keep it bac awhile: "I never can have time to drefs "(No woman breathing takes up lefs); "I'in hurried fo, it makes me fick;

I wish the dinner at Old Nick."
At table now the acts her part,
Has all the dinner-cant by heart:
"I thought we were to dine alone,
"My dear; for fure, if I had known
"This company would come to day--
"But really 'tis my fpoufe's way!
"He's fo unkind, he never feuds
"To tell when he invites his friends:
"I wish ye may but have enough!"
And while with all this paltry ftuff
She fits tormenting every gueft,
Nor gives her tongue one moment's reft,
In phrafes batter'd, ftale, and trito,
Which modern ladies call polite;
You fee the booby husband fit
In admiration at her wit.

But let me now, awhile furvey
Our madam o'er her evening-tea;
Surrounded with her noify clans
Of prudes, coquettes, and harridans;
When, frighted at the clamorous crew,
Away the God of Silence flew,
And fair Difcretion left the place,
And Modefty with blushing face:
VOL. V.

Now enters overweening Pride,
And Scandal ever gaping wide;
Hypocrify with frown fevere,
Scurrility with gibing air;
Rude Laughter feeming like to burst,
And Malice always judging worit;
And Vanity with pocket-glafs,
And Impudence with front of brass;
And ftudy'd Affectation came,
Each limb and feature out of frame;
While Ignorance, with brain of lead,
Flew hovering o'er each female head.

Why ft ould I afk of thee, my Mufe,
An hundred tongues, as poets use,
When, to give every dame her due,
An hundred thousand were too few ?
Or how fhall I, alas, relate

The fum of all their fenfelefs prite,
Their innuendos, hints, and flanders,
Their meanings lewd, and double entendres ?
Now comes the general fcandal-charge;
What fome invent, the reft enlarge;
And, "Madam, if it be a lye,
"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 moft fevere,
Wherein yourselves have greatest fare?
Thus every fool herfel deludes;
The prudes condemn the abfent prudes:
Mopfa, who ftinks her spouse to death,
Accufes Chloe's tainted breath;
Hircina, rank with fweat, prefumes
To cenfure Phyllis for perfumes;
While crooked Cynthia, fneering, says
That Florimel wears iron ftays:
Chloe, of every coxcomb jealous,
Admires how girls can talk with fellows;
And, full of indignation, frets,
That women fhould be fuch coquettes :
Iris, for fcandal most notorious,
Cries, "Lord, the world is fo cenforious!"
And Rufa, with her combs of lead,.
Whispers that Sappho's hair is red:
Aura, whofe tongue you hear a mile hence,
Talks half a day in praife of filence:
And Sylvia full of inward guilt,
Calls Amoret an arrant jilt.

Now voices over voices rife,
While each to be the loudest vies:
They contradict, arm, dispute.
No fingle tongue one moment mute;
All mad to fpeak, and none to hearken,
They fet the very lap-dog barking;
Their chattering makes a louder din
Than fifh-wives o'er a cup of gin :
Not school-boys at a barring-out
Rais'd ever fuch inceffant rout:
The jumbling particles of matter
In chaos made not fuch a clatter;
Far lefs the rab! le roar and rail,
When drunk with four election-ale.

Nor do they trust their tongues alone,
But fpeak a language of their own;

A aa

Can read a nod, a fhrug, a look,
Far better than a printed book;
Convey a libel in a frown,
And wink a reputation down;
Or, by the toffing of the fan,
Defcribe the lady and the man.

But fee, the female club difbands,
Each twenty visits on her hands.
Now all alone poor madam fits
In vapours and hysteric fits:

"And was not Tom this morning fent?
"I'd lay my life he never went:
"Paft fix, and not a living foul!
"I might by this have won a vole."
A dreadful interval of spleen!
How fhall we pass the time between?

Here, Betty, let me take my drops;
"And feel my pulfe, I know it ftops:
"This head of mine, lord, how it fwims!
"And fuch 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 fup."

The table, cards, and counters, fet,
And all the gamefter-ladies met,
Her fpken and fits recover'd quite,
Our madam can fit up all night:
"Whoever comes, I'm not within."
Quadrille 's the word, and fo begin.

How can the Mufe her aid impart,
Unfkill'd in all the terms of art?
Or in harmonious numbers put
The deal, the fhuffle, and the cut?
The fuperftitious whims relate,
That fill a female gamefter's pate?
What agony of foul the feels
To fee a knave's inverted heels!
She draws up card by card, to find
Good fortune peeping from behind;
With panting heart, and carneft eyes,
In hope to fee fadillo rise :
In vain, alas! her hope is fed;
She draws an ace, and fees it red;

In ready counters never pays,

But pawns her snuff-box, rings, and keys;
Ever with fome new fancy ftruck,
Tries twenty charms to mend her luck.
«This morning, when the parfon came,
"I faid I fhould not win a game.

"This odious chair, how came I ftuck in 't?
"I think I never had good luc、 in 't.
"I'm fo uneafy in my stays;
"Your fan a moment, if you please..

Stand further, girl, or get you gone;. "I always lofe when you look on." "Lord! madam, you have loft cedille: "I never faw you play fo ili."

Nay, madam, give me leave to fay, 'Twas you that threw the game away: "When lady Tricksey play'd a four, "You took it with a mattadere; "I faw you touch your wedding-ring "Before my lady call'd a king; "You spoke a word began with H,

"And I knew whom you meant to teach,

"Because you held the king of hearts; "Fie, madam, leave thefe little arts." "That 's not fo bad as one that rubs "Her chair, to call the king of clubs; "And makes her partner understand "A mattadere is in her hand." "Madam, you have no caufe to flounce, "I fwear I faw you thrice renounce." "And truly, madam, I know when, "Inttead of five, you scor'd me ten. Spadille here has got a mark;

"A child may know it in the dark: "I gueft the hand: it feldom fails :

"I wish fome folks would pare their nails." While thus they rail, and scold, and ftorm

It paffes but for common form:

But, confcious that they all speak true,
And give each other but their due,

It never interrupts the game,

Or makes them fenfible of fhame.

The time too precious now to wafte,
The fupper gobbled up in hafte;
Again afresh to cards they run,
'As if they had but just begun.
But I shall not again repeat,

How oft' they fquabble, fnarl, and cheat.
At laft they hear the watchman knock,
"A frofty morn-paft four o'clock.”
The chairmen are not to be found,
"Come, let us play the other round.”

Now all in hafte they huddle on
Their hoods, their cloaks, and get them gone;
But, firft, the winner muft invite
The company to-morrow night.

Unlucky madam, left in tears
(Who now again quadrille forfwears),
With empty purfe, and aching head,
Steals to her fleeping spouse to bed.