Eighteenth Century Waifs. Ashton John

      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 Quadrill.10

      She stretches, gapes, unglues her Eyes,

      And asks if it be time to rise.

      Of Head-ach and the Spleen complains;

      And then to cool her heated Brains,

      Her Night-gown!11 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 Mattadores, and lose Codill;

      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

      You pawn’d to him. First, shew 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.

      Well, I remember what she won;

      And hath she sent so soon to dun?

      Here, carry down those ten Pistoles

      My Husband left to pay for Coals:

      I thank my Stars they are all 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 ev’ry 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 Macklin 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;

      I never can have time to Dress,

      No Woman breathing takes up less;

      I’m hurried so, it makes me sick,

      I wish the dinner at Old Nick.

      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 ye may but have enough;

      And while, with all this paultry Stuff,

      She sits tormenting every Guest,

      Nor gives her Tongue one Moment’s Rest,

      In Phrases batter’d stale and trite,

      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 Ev’ning Tea;

      Surrounded with her Noisy Clans

      Of Prudes, Coquets, 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 over-weening 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 hov’ring o’er each Female Head.

      Why should I ask of thee, my Muse,

      An Hundred Tongues, as Poets use,

      When, to give ev’ry Dame her due,

      An Hundred Thousand were too few!

      Or how should I, alas! relate,

      The Sum of all their Senseless Prate,

      Their Inuendo’s, Hints, and Slanders,

      Their Meanings lewd, and double Entanders.12

      Now comes the general Scandal Charge,

      What some invent, the rest enlarge;

      And, Madam, if it he a Lye,

      You have the tale as cheap as I:

      I must conceal my Author’s Name,

      But now ’tis known to common Fame.

      Say, foolish Females, Old 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 Prudes condemn the absent Prudes.

      Mopsa who stinks her Spouse to Death,

      Accuses Chloe’s tainted Breath:

      Hircina, rank with Sweat, presumes

      To censure Phillis for Perfumes:

      While crooked Cynthia swearing, says,

      That Florimel wears Iron Stays.

      Chloe’s of ev’ry Coxcomb jealous,

      AdmiresСкачать книгу