"And truly, madam, I know when
Instead of five, you scor'd me ten.
Spadillo here has got a mark:
A child may know it in the dark :
I guess'd the hand; it seldom fails:

It

passes

I wish some folks would pair their nails."
While thus they rail, and scold, and storm,
but for common form:
But, conscious that they all speak true,
And give each other but their due,
It never interrupts the game,

Or makes them sensible of shame.

The time too precious now to waste,
The supper gobbled up in haste;
Again afresh to cards they run,

As if they had but just begun.
But I shall not again repeat,

How oft they squabble, snarl, and cheat.
At last they hear the watchman knock,
"A frosty morn-past four o'clock."
The chairmen are not to be found,
"Come, let us play the other round.”

Now all in haste they huddle on
Their hoods, their cloaks, and get them gone;
But, first, the winner must invite
The company to-morrow night.
Unlucky madam, left in tears,
(Who now again quadrille forswears)
With empty purse, and aching head,
Steals to her sleeping spouse to bed.

As noisy as the wind,
As empty as the air?

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. 1728.

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,

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 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 silk 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."