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And, madam, there's my lady Spade,
And studied Affectation came, Hath sent this letter by her maid.”
Each limb and feature out of frame; “ Well, I remember what she won;
While Ignorance, with brain of lead, And hath she sent so soon to dun?
Flew hovering o'er each female head. Here, carry down those ten pistoles
Why should I ask of thee, my Muse, My husband left to pay for coals :
An hundred tongues, as poets use, I thank my stars, they all are light;
When, to give every dame her due, And I may have revenge to-night.”
An hundred thousand were too few? Now, loitering o'er her tea and cream,
Or how shall I, alas! relate She enters on her usual theme;
The sum of all their senseless prate, Her last night's ill success repeats,
Their innuendoes, hints, and slanders, Calls lady Spade a hundred cheats :
Their meanings lewd, and double entendres 1 “ She slipt spadillo in her breast,
Now comes the general scandal-charge; Then thought to turn it to a jest :
What some invent, the rest enlarge ; There's Mrs. Cut and she combine,
And, “ Madam, if it be a lie, And to each other give the sign."
You have the tale as cheap as I : Through every game pursues her tale,
I must conceal my author's name; Like hunters o'er their evening ale.
But now 'tis known to common fame.” Now to another scene give place :
Say, foolish females, bold and blind, Enter the folks with silks and lace :
Say, by what fatal turn of mind, Fresh matter for a world of chat,
Are you on vices most severe, Right Indian this, right Mechlin that:
Wherein yourselves have greatest share ? “Observe this pattern; there's a stuff;
Thus every fool herself deludes; I can have customers enough.
The prudes condemn the absent prudes : Dear madam, you are grown so hard
Mopsa, who stinks her spouse to death, This lace is worth twelve pounds a yard : Accuses Chloe's tainted breath; Madam, if there be truth in man,
Hircina, rank with sweat, presumes I never sold so cheap a fan."
To censure Phyllis for perfumes; This business of importance o'er,
While crooked Cynthia, sneering, says And madam almost dress'd by four;
That Florimel wears iron stays : The footman, in his usual phrase,
Chloe, of every coxcomb jealous, Comes up with, “ Madam, dinner stays."
Admires how girls can talk with fellows; She answers in her usual style,
And, full of indignation, frets, “ The cook must keep it back a while :
That women should be such coquettes : I never can have time to dress;
Iris, for scandal most notorious, (No woman breathing takes up less ;)
Cries, “ Lord, the world is so censorious!" I'm hurried so it makes me sick;
And Rufa, with her combs of lead, I wish the dinner at Old Nick."
Whispers that Sappho's hair is red: At table now she acts her part,
Aura, whose tongue you hear a mile hence, Has all the dinner-cant by heart :
Talks half a day in praise of silence ; “ I thought we were to dine alone,
And Sylvia, full of inward guilt, My dear; for sure, if I had known
Calls Amoret an arrant jilt. This company would come to-day
Now voices over voices rise, But really 'tis my spouse's way!
While each to be the loudest vies : He's so unkind, he never sends
They contradict, affirm, dispute, To tell when he invites his friends :
No single tongue one moment mute; I wish ye may but have enough!"
All mad to speak, and none to hearken, And while with all this paltry stuff
They set the very lap-dog barking; She sits tormenting every guest,
Their chattering makes a louder din Nor gives her tongue one moment's rest,
Than fish-wives o'er a cup of gin: In phrases batter'd, stale, and trite,
Not school-boys at a barring-out Which modern ladies call polite;
Rais'd ever such incessant rout; You see the booby husband sit
The jumbling particles of matter In admiration at her wit.
In chaos made not such a clatter; But let me now awhile survey
Far less the rabble roar and rail, Our madam o'er her evening-tea;
When drunk with sour election ale. Surrounded with her noisy clans
Nor do they trust their tongues alone. of prudes, coquettes, and harridans ;
But speak a language of their own ; When, frighted at the clamorous crew,
Can read a nod, a shrug, a look, Away the god of Silence flew,
Far better than a printed book; And fair Discretion left the place,
Convey a libel in a frown, And Modesty with blushing face :
And wink a reputation down; Now enters overweening Pride,
Or, by the tossing of the fan, And Scandal ever gaping wide;
Describe the lady and the man. Hypocrisy with frown severe,
But see, the female club disbands, Scurrility with gibing air;
Each twenty visits on her hands. Rude Laughter seeming like to burst,
Now all alone poor madam sits And Malice always judging worst;
In vapors and hysteric fits: And Vanity with pocket-glass,
“ And was not Tom this morning sent ? And Impndence with front of brass ;
I'd lay my life he never went:
Past six, and not a living soul !
But, conscious that they all speak true, I might by this have won a vole."
And give each other but their due, A dreadful interval of spleen!
It never interrupts the game, How shall we pass the time between!
Or makes them sensible of shame. “Here, Betty, let me take my drops ;
The time too precious now to waste, And feel my pulse, I know it stops :
The supper gobbled up in haste ; This head of mine, Lord, how it swims!
Again afresh to cards they run, And such a pain in all my limbs!"
As if they had but just begun. “Dear madam, try to take a nap."
But I shall not again repeat, But now they hear a footman's rap:
How oft they squabble, snarl, and cheat. "Go, run, and light the ladies up:
At last they hear the watchman knock. It must be one before we sup."
“ A frosty mom-past four o'clock." The table, cards, and counters, set,
The chairmen are not to be found, And all the gamester-ladies met,
“Come, let us play the other round.” Her spleen and fits recover'd quite,
Now all in haste they huddle on Our madam can sit up all night:
Their hoods, their cloaks, and get them gone , “Whoever comes, I'm not within.".
But, first, the winner must invite Quadrille's the word, and so begin.
The company to-morrow night. How can the Muse her aid impart,
Unlucky madam, left in tears, Unskill'd in all the terms of art ?
(Who now again quadrille forswears.) Or in harmonious numbers put
With empty purse, and aching head,
Steals to her sleeping spouse to bed.
ON THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT.*
OCCASIONED BY READING THE FOLLOWING In vain, alas! her hope is fed ;
MAXIM IN ROCHEFOUCAULT: She draws an ace, and sees it red;
Dans l'adversité de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons In ready counters never pays,
toujours quelque chose qui ne nous déplait pas. But pawns her snuff-box, rings, and keys: Ever with some new fancy struck,
" In the adversity of our best friends, we always find some Tries twenty charms to mend her luck.
thing that doth not displease us." “ This morning, when the parson came, I said I should not win a game.
As Rochefoucault his maxims drew This odious chair, how came I stuck in 't? From nature, I believe them true: I think I never had good luck in't.
They argue no corrupted mind I'm so uneasy in my stays ;
In him : the fault is in mankind. Your fan a moment, if you please.
This maxim more than all the rest Stand further, girl, or get you gone;
Is thought too base for human breast : I always lose when you look on."
“In all distresses of our friends, “Lord! madam, you have lost codille !
We first consult our private ends; I never saw you play so ill.”
While nature, kindly bent to ease us, Nay, madam, give me leave to say,
Points out some circumstance to please us." "Twas you that threw the game away :
If this perhaps your patience move, When lady Tricksey play'd a four,
Let reason and experience prove. You took it with a mattadore ;
We all behold with envious eyes I saw you touch your wedding-ring
Our equals rais'd above our size. Before my lady call’d a king ;
Who would not at a crowded show You spoke a word began with H,
Stand high himself, keep others low? And I know whom you meant to teach,
I love my friend as well as you : Because you held the king of hearts ;
But why should he obstruct my view ? Fie, madam, leave these little arts."
Then let me have the higher post ; · That's not so bad as one that rubs
Suppose it but an inch at most. Her chair, to call the king of clubs;
If in a battle you should find And makes her partner understand
One, whom you love of all mankind, A mattadore is in her hand.”
Had some heroic action done, • Madam, you have no cause to flounce,
A champion kill'd, or trophy won; I swear I saw you thrice renounce."
Rather than thus be over-topt, “ And truly, madam, I know when,
Would you not wish his laurels cropt? Instead of five, you scor'd me ten.
Dear honest Ned is in the gout,
Lies rack'd with pain, and you without :
* Written in November, 1731.—There are two distine: I wish some folks would pare their nails."
poems on this subject, one of them containing many spu. While thus they rail, and scold, and storm, rious lines. In what is here printed, the genuine parts It passes but for common form :
of both are preserved. N.
How patiently you hear him groan!
What poet would not grieve to see
Her end when emulation misses,
To all my foes, dear Fortune, send
Thus much may serve by way of proem ;
The time is not remote when I
“For poetry, he's past his prime;
And then their tenderness appears
In such a case they talk in tropes,
Yet should some neighbor feel a pain
My good companions, never fear;
Behold the fatal day arrive!
Before the passing-bell begun,
Now Grub-street wits are all employ'd,
Madam, your husband will attend
Why do we grieve that friends should die !
Some country squire to Lintot goes,
“Here's Wolston's tracts, the twelfth edition
Suppose me dead; and then suppose A club assembled at the Rose ; Where, from discourse of this and that, I grow the subject of their chat. And while they toss my name about, With favor some, and some without; One, quite indifferent in the cause, My character impartial draws. * The Dean, if we believe report, Was never ill receiv'd at court, Although, ironically grave, He sham'd the fool, and lash'd the knave; To steal a hint was never known, But what he writ was all his own."
“Sir, I have heard another story; He was a most confounded Tory, And grew, or he is much belied, Extremely dull, before he died.”
“Can we the Drapier then forget ? Is not our nation in his debt ? ”Twas he that writ the Drapier's letters!”—
“He should have left them for his betters:
“ Perhaps I may allow the Dean
He would have deem'd it a disgrace,
go joyful back,
to public roads Commodious to their own abodes.
" He never thought an honor done him,
“He kept with princes due decorum;
“Had he but spar'd his tongue and pen,
" And, oh! how short are human schemes'