Eighteenth Century Waifs. Ashton John

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can talk with Fellows,

      And, full of Indignation, frets

      That Women should be such Coquets.

      Iris, for Scandal most notorious,

      Cries, Lord, the world is so censorious;

      And Rufa, with her Combs of Lead,14

      Whispers that Sappho’s Hair is Red.

      Aura, whose Tongue you hear a Mile hence,

      Talks half a day in Praise of Silence:

      And Silvia, 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 Fish-Wives o’er a Cup of Gin;

      Not School-boys at a Barring-out,

      Raised ever such incessant Rout:

      The Shumbling (sic) Particles of Matter

      In Chaos make not such a Clatter;

      Far less the Rabble roar and rail,

      When Drunk with sour Election Ale.

      Nor do they trust their Tongue alone,

      To speak a Language of their own;

      Can read a Nod, a Shrug, a Look;

      Far better than a printed Book;

      Convey a Libel in a Frown,

      And wink a Reputation down;

      Or, by the tossing of the Fan,

      Describe the Lady and the Man.

      But, see the Female Club disbands,

      Each, twenty Visits on her Hands:

      Now, all alone, poor Madam sits,

      In Vapours and Hysterick Fits;

      And was not Tom this Morning sent?

      I’d lay my Life he never went:

      Past Six, and not a living Soul!

      I might by this have won a Vole.

      A dreadful Interval of Spleen!

      How shall we pass the Time between?

      Here, Betty, let me take my Drops,

      And feel my Pulse, I know it stops:

      This Head of mine, Lord, how it Swims!

      And such a Pain in all my Limbs!

      Dear Madam, try to take a Nap:

      But now they hear a Foot-Man’s Rap;

      Go, run, and light the Ladies up;

      It must be One before we Sup.

      The Table, Cards, and Counters set,

      And all the Gamester Ladies met,

      Her Spleen and Fits recover’d quite,

      Our Madam can sit up all Night;

      Whoever comes, I’m not within,

      Quadrill the Word, and so begin.

      How can the Muse her Aid impart,

      Unskill’d in all the Terms of Art?

      Or, in harmonious Numbers, put

      The Deal, the Shuffle, and the Cut?

      The Superfluous Whims relate,

      That fill a Female Gamester’s Pate:

      What Agony of Soul she feels

      To see a Knave’s inverted Heels;

      She draws up Card by Card, to find

      Good Fortune peeping from behind;

      With panting Heart and earnest Eyes,

      In hope to see Spadillo rise;

      In vain, alas! her Hope is fed,

      She draws an Ace, and sees it red.

      In ready Counters never pays,

      But pawns her Snuff-Box, Rings, and Keys.

      Ever with some new Fancy struck,

      Tries twenty Charms to mend her Luck.

      This Morning when the Parson came,

      I said I could not win a Game.

      This odious Chair, how came I stuck in’t?

      I think I’ve never had good Luck in’t.

      I’m so uneasy in my Stays:

      Your Fan, a Moment, if you please.

      Stand further, Girl, or get you gone,

      I always lose when you look on.

      Lord! Madam, you have lost Codill;

      I never saw you play so ill.

      Nay, Madam, give me leave to say

      ’Twas you that threw the game away;

      When Lady Tricksy play’d a Four,

      You took it with a Matadore;

      I saw you touch your Wedding-Ring

      Before my Lady call’d a King.

      You spoke a Word began with H,

      And I know whom you mean to teach,

      Because you held the King of Hearts;

      Fie, Madam, leave these little Arts.

      That’s not so bad as one that rubs

      Her Chair to call the King of Clubs,

      And makes her Partner understand

      A Matadore is in her Hand.

      Madam, you have no Cause to flounce,

      I swear I saw you twice renounce.

      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 the Hand, it seldom fails,

      I wish some Folks would pare their Nails.

      While thus they rail, and scold, and storm,

      It passes but for common Form;

      Are conscious that they all speak true,

      And give each other but their due;

      It never interrupts the Game,

      Or makes ’em sensible of Shame.

      Time too precious now to waste,

      The Supper gobbled up in haste:

      Again a-fresh to Cards they run,

      As if they had but just begun;

      Yet shall I not again repeat

      How oft they Squabble, Snarl, and Cheat:

      At last they hear the Watchman Knock,

      A frosty Morn … Past Four a-clock.

      The Chair-men are not to be found,

      Come, let us play the t’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 Quadrill forswears,

      With empty Purse and aching Head,

      Steals

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