Volume I Part 28 (2/2)

Too oft, alas! a scolding wife Usurps a jolly fellow's throne; And many drink the cup of life, Mix'd and embitter'd by a Joan.

In short, whatever men pursue, Of pleasure, folly, war, or love: This mimic race brings all to view: Alike they dress, they talk, they move.

Go on, great Stretch, with artful hand, Mortals to please and to deride; And, when death breaks thy vital band, Thou shalt put on a puppet's pride.

Thou shalt in puny wood be shown, Thy image shall preserve thy fame; Ages to come thy worth shall own, Point at thy limbs, and tell thy name.

Tell Tom,[2] he draws a farce in vain, Before he looks in nature's gla.s.s; Puns cannot form a witty scene, Nor pedantry for humour pa.s.s.

To make men act as senseless wood, And chatter in a mystic strain, Is a mere force on flesh and blood, And shows some error in the brain.

He that would thus refine on thee, And turn thy stage into a school, The jest of Punch will ever be, And stand confest the greater fool.

[Footnote 1: Two famous puppet-show men.]

[Footnote 2: Sheridan.]

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 s.e.x to write a satire, And brand me for a woman-hater?

On me, who think them all so fair, They rival Venus to a hair; Their virtues never ceased 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, etc.

[Here several verses are omitted.]

The hound be hunted by the hare, Than I turn rebel to the fair.

'Twas you engaged 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 waked by noon, (Some authors say not quite so soon,) Because, though sore against her will, She sat all night up at quadrille.

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