A Lady's Diary.

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?" " Why, show him up."

Your dressing-plate he'll be content

To take for interest cent. per cent.

And, madam, there's my Lady Spade
Hath sent this letter by her maid."

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 :

A Lady's Diary.

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 answers in her usual style,
"The cook must keep it back a while:

At table now she acts her part,
Has all the dinner cant by heart.
"I thought we were to dine alone
My dear! for sure, if I had known
This company would come to-day-
But really 'tis my spouse's way.
He's so unkind he never sends
To tell when he invites his friends.
I wish you may but have enough—”
And while with all this paltry stuff
She sits tormenting every guest,

Nor gives her tongue one moment's rest,
In phrases batter'd, stale, and trite,

A Lady's Diary.

Which modern ladies call polite,
You see the booby husband sit
In admiration at her wit.

But, let me now a while survey
Our madam o'er her evening tea,
Surrounded with her noisy clans
Of prudes, coquettes, and harridans;
When, frighted at the clamorous crew,
Away the god of silence flew,
And fair Discretion left the place,
And Modesty, with blushing face.
Now enters overweening Pride,
And Scandal, ever gaping wide,
Hypocrisy with frown severe,
Scurrility with gibing air,

Rude Laughter, seeming like to burst,
And Malice, always judging worst,
And Vanity, with pocket-glass,
And Impudence, with front of brass,
And studied Affectation came,
Each limb and feature out of frame,
While Ignorance, with brain of lead,
Flew hovering o'er each female head.

Why should I ask of thee, my Muse,
An hundred tongues, as poets use,
When, to give every dame her due,
An hundred thousand were too few?
Or how should I, alas! relate
The sum of all their senseless prate,
Their inuendos, hints, and slanders,

Their meanings lewd, and double entendres?

Now comes the general scandal charge,

What some invent the rest enlarge;

And, "Madam, if it be a lie,

You have the tale as cheap as I:

A Lady's Diary.

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 most severe Wherein yourselves have greatest share? Thus every fool herself deludes, The prude condemns the absent prudes : While crooked Cynthia sneering says That Florimel wears iron stays: Chloe, of every coxcomb jealous, Admires how girls can talk with fellows; And, full of indignation, frets That women should be such coquettes : Iris for scandal most notorious,

Cries, Lord! the world is so censorious!

And Rufa, with her combs of lead,
Whispers that Sappho's hair is red:

Aura, whose tongue you hear a mile hence,

Talks half a day in praise of silence :

And Sylvia, full of inward guilt,

Calls Amoret an arrant jilt.

Now voices over voices rise,
While each to be the loudest vies;
They contradict, affirm, dispute,
No single tongue one moment mute:
All mad to speak, and none to hearken,
They set the very lap-dog barking:
Their chattering makes a louder din
Than fishwives o'er a cup of gin;
Not schoolboys at a barring-out
Raised ever such incessant rout;
The jumbling particles of matter
In chaos made not such a clatter;
Far less the rabble roar and rail,
When drunk with sour election-ale.

A Lady's Diary.

Nor do they trust their tongue alone, But speak a language of their own;