Volume I Part 29 (1/2)

She stretches, gapes, unglues her eyes, And asks if it be time to rise; Of headache and the spleen complains; And then, to cool her heated brains, Her night-gown and her slippers brought her, Takes a large dram of citron water.

Then to her gla.s.s; 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 p.a.w.n?”--”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 Has sent this letter by her maid.”

”Well, I remember what she won; And has she sent so soon to dun?

Here, carry down these ten pistoles My husband left to pay for coals: I thank my stars they all are 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 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; 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 paltry 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 b.o.o.by 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 G.o.d of Silence flew, And fair Discretion left the place, And modesty with blus.h.i.+ng 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 gla.s.s, And Impudence with front of bra.s.s; 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, A hundred tongues, as poets use, When, to give every dame her due, A hundred thousand were too few?

Or how should I, alas! relate The sum of all their senseless prate, Their innuendoes, 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; 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: Mopsa, who stinks her spouse to death, Accuses Chloe's tainted breath; Hircina, rank with sweat, presumes To censure Phyllis for perfumes; While crooked Cynthia, sneering, says, That Florimel wears iron stays; Chloe, of every c.o.xcomb 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.

Nor do they trust their tongues alone, But 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 hysteric 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 pa.s.s 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 footman'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.”

Quadrille's 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 superst.i.tious whims relate, That fill a female gamester's pate?