Oh! turn your precepts into laws, Redeem the women's ruin'd cause, Retrieve loft empire to our fex, That men may bow their rebel necks.
LONG be the day that Sacred to friendship, wit, and mirth;
Late dying may you cast a shred Of your rich mantle o'er my head ; To bear with dignity my forrow,
One day alone, then die to-morrow.
The JOURNAL of a MODERN LADY.
Written in 1728.
IT was a moft unfriendly part
In you, who ought to know my heart, So 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 string?
Methinks I hear the ladies cry,
Will he his character belie? Muft never our misfortunes end? And have we loft our only friend? Ah, lovely nymphs, remove your fears, No more let fall thofe precious tears. Sooner fhall, &c.
[Here feveral verfes are omitted.] The hound be hunted by the hare, ́ ́ Than I turn rebel to the fair.
"TWAS you engag'd me firft 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 muft fubmit; And yet perhaps you may be bit. I but transcribe; 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 moder times, the guilt is yours, And me my innocence fecures. Unwilling muse, begin thy lay, The annals of a female day.
By nature turn'd to play the rake well,
(As we shall shew you in the sequel), The modern dame is wak'd by noon, (Some authors fay, not quite fo foon); Because, tho' fore against her will, She fat all night up at Quadrille. She ftretches, gapes, unglues her eyes, And asks if it be time to rife;
Of headach 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 codill! "Depend upon't, I never will. "But run to Tom, and bid him fix "The ladies here to-night by fix.". Madam, the goldsmith waits below; He fays, his bufiness is to know If you'll redeem the filver cup :
He keeps in pawn?" Why, fhew him up."
"And hath she fent fo foon to dun ? "Here, carry down thofe ten piftoles "My husband left to pay for coals: "I thank my ftars, 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 last night's ill fuccefs repeats, Calls Lady Spade a hundred cheats: "She flipt Spadilio in her breast, "Then thought to turn it to a jeft: "There's Mrs Cut and she combine, "And to each other give the fign." Thro' ev'ry game purfues her tale, Like hunters o'er their ev'ning-ale. Now to another fcene give place: Enter the folks with filks 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 so hard- This lace is worth twelve pounds a-yard: Madam, if there be truth in man,
I never fold fo cheap a fan.
THIS bus'nefs of importance o'er, And Madam almoft dress'd by four, The footman, in his ufual phrafe, Comes up with, Madam, dinner ftays. 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 lefs; I'm hurried fo, it makes me fick ; I wish the dinner at Old Nick. At table now fhe 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 would come to-day-
"But really 'tis my spouse's way;
"He's fo unkind, he never fends
"To tell when he invites his friends: .
"I with ye may but have enough."
And while with all this paltry ftuff
She fits tormenting ev'ry guest,
Nor gives her tongue one moment's reft, In phrases batter'd, ftale, and trite, Which modern ladies call polite;
You fee the booby husband fit
In admiration at her wit!
But let me now a while furvey Our Madam o'er her ev'ning-tea; Surrounded with her noify clans Of prudes, coquets, and harridans; When, frighted at the clam'rous crew, Away the god of Silence flew, And fair Difcretion left the place, And Modefty with blushing face:
Now enters overweening Pride,
And Scandal ever gaping wide;
Hypocrity with frown fevere,
Scurrility with gibing air;
Rude Laughter feeming like to burst, And Malice always judging worst ; And Vanity with pocket-glass, And Impudence with front of brafs ; And study'd Affectation came, Each limb and feature out of frame; While Ignorance, with brain of lead,
Flew hov'ring o'er each female head.
WHY fhould I ask of thee, my mufe, An hundred tongues, as poets use,
"I must conceal my author's name;
"But now 'tis known to common fame."
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