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Cadenus, to his grief and shame,

Who, though he cannot spell, is wise Could scarce oppose Vanessa's flame;

Enough to read a lady's eyes, And, though her arguments were strong,

And will each accidental glance At least could hardly wish them wrong.

Interpret for a kind advance. Howe'er it came, he could not tell,

But what success Vanessa met, But sure she never talk'd so well.

Is to the world a secret yet. His pride began to interpose;

Whether the nymph, to please her swain, Preferr'd before a crowd of beaux !

Talks in a high romantic strain; So bright a nymph to come unsought!

Or whether he at last descends Such wonder by his merit wrought!

To act with less seraphic ends; "Tis merit must with her prevail !

Or, to compound the business, whether He never knew her judgment fail !

They temper love and books together ; She noted all she ever read!

Must never to mankind be told, And had a most discerning head!

Nor shall the conscious Muse unfold. 'Tis an old maxim in the schools,

Meantime the mournful queen of love That flattery 's the food of fools,

Led but a weary life above. Yet now and then your men of wit

She ventures now to leave the skies, Will condescend to take a bit.

Grown by Vanessa's conduct wise: So, when Cadenus could not hide,

For, though by one perverse event He chose to justify, his pride ;

Pallas had cross'd her first intent; Construing the passion she had shown,

Though her design was not obtain'd, Much to her praise, more to his own.

Yet had she much experience gain'd; Nature in him bad merit plac'd,

And by the project vainly try'd, In her a most judicious taste.

Could better now the cause decide. Love, hitherto a transient guest,

She gave due notice, that both parties, Ne'er held possession of his breast;

Coram regina, pror' die Martis, So long attending at the gate,

Should at their peril, without fail, Disdain'd to enter in so late.

Come and appear, and save their bail. Love why do we one passion call,

All met; and, silence thrice proclaim'd, When 'tis a compound of them all ?

One lawyer to each side was nam'd.
Where hot and cold, where sharp and sweet, The judge discover'd in her face
In all their equipages meet;

Resentments for her late disgrace ;
Where pleasures mix'd with pains appear,

And, full of anger, shame, and grief, Sorrow with joy, and hope with fear ;

Directed them to mind their brief, Wherein his dignity and age

Nor spend their time to show their reading; Forbid Cadenus to engage,

She'd have a summary proceeding. But friendship, in its greatest height,

She gather'd under eyery head A constant, rational delight,

The sum of what each lawyer said, On virtue's basis fix'd to last,

Gave her own reasons last, and then When love allurements long are past,

Decreed the cause against the men. Which gently warms, but cannot burn,

But, in a weighty case like this, He gladly offers in return;

To show she did not judge amiss, His want of passion will redeem

Which evil tongues might else report, With gratitude, respect, esteem ;

She made a speech in open court, With that devotion we bestow,

Wherein she grievously complains, When goddesses appear below.

“ How she was cheated by the swains : While thus Cadenus entertains

On whose petition (humbly showing, Vanessa in exalted strains,

That women were not worth the wooing, The nymph in sober words entreats

And that, unless the sex would mend, A truce with all sublime conceits :

The race of lovers soon must end) — For why such raptures, flights, and fancies, She was at Lord knows what expense To her who durst not read romances ?

To form a nymph of wit and sense, In lofty style to make replies,

A model for her sex design'd, Which he had taught her to despise ?

Who never could one lover find. But when her tutor will affect

She saw her favour was misplac'd; Devotion, duty, and respect,

The fellows had a wretched taste; He fairly abdicates the throne;

She needs must tell them to their face, The government is now her own;

They were a stupid, senseless race; He has a forfeiture incurr'd;

And, were she to begin again, She vows to take him at his word,

She'd study to reform the men ; And hopes he will not think it strange,

Or add some grains of folly more If both should now their stations change.

To women, than they had before, The nymph will have her turn to be

To put them on an equal foot; The tutor ; and the pupil, he :

And this, or nothing else would do 't Though she already can discern

This might their mutual fancy strike, Her scholar is not apt to learn ;

Since every being loves its like. Or wants capacity to reach

“ But now, repenting what was done, The science she designs to teach :

She left all business to her son ; Wherein his genius was below

She puts the world in his possession, The skill of every common beau,

1 And the him use it at discretion."

The cryer was order'd to dismiss The court, so made his last O yes ! The goddess would no longer wait ;

THE JOURNAL OF A MODERN LADY. But, rising from her chair of state, Left all below at six and seven,

IN A LETTER TO A PERSON OF QUALITY. 1728. Harness'd her doves, and flew to Heaven.

SIR,
It was a most unfriendly part
In you, who ought to know my heart,

Are well acquainted with my zeal
STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY. 1720.

For all the female commonweal

How could it come into your mind ALL travellers at first incline

To pitch on me of all mankind, Where'er they see the fairest sign;

Against the sex to write a satire, And, if they find the chambers neat,

And brand me for a woman-hater? And like the liquor and the meat,

On me, who think them all so fair, Will call again and recommend

They rival Venus to a hair ; The Angel-inn to every friend.

Their virtues never ceas'd to sing, What though the painting grows decay’d,

Since first I learn'd to tune a string ? The house will never lose its trade :

Methinks I hear the ladies cry, Nay, though the treacherous tapster Thomas Will he his character belie? Hangs a new Angel two doors from us,

Must never our misfortunes end? As fine as daubers' hands can make it,

And have we lost our only friend? In hopes that strangers may mistake it,

Ah, lovely nymphs, remove your fears, We think it both a shame and sin

No more let fall those precious tears. To quit the true old Angel-inn.

Sooner shall, &c. Now this is Stella's case in fact,

[Here are several verses omitted. 1 An angel's face a little crack'd :

The hound be hunted by the hare, (Could poets or could painters fix

Than I turn rebel to the fair. How arzgels look at thirty-six :)

'Twas you engag'd me first to write, This drew us in at first to find

Then gave the subject out of spite : In such a form an angel's mind;

The journal of a modern dame And every virtue now supplies

Is by my promise what you claim. The fainting rays of Stella's eyes.

My word is past, I must submit; See at her levee crowding swains,

And yet, perhaps, you may be bit. Whom Stella freely entertains

I but transcribe; for not a line With breeding, humour, wit, and sense ;

Of all the satire shall be mine. And puts them but to small expense;

Compell’d by you to tag in rhymes Their mind so plentifully fills,

The common slanders of the times, And makes such reasonable bills,

Of modern times, the guilt is yours, So little gets for what she gives,

And me my innocence secures. We really wonder how she lives!

Unwilling Muse, begin thy lay, And, had her stock been less, no doubt

The annals of a female day. She must have long ago run out.

By nature turn'd to play the rake well, Then who can think we'll quit the place, (As we shall show you in the sequel,) When Doll hangs out a newer face?

The modern dame is wak'd by noon, Or stop and light at Chloe's head,

Some authors say, not quite so soon,) With scraps and leavings to be fed ?

Because, though sore against her will, Then, Chloe, still go on to prate

She sate all night up at quadrille. Of thirty-six and thirty-eight;

She stretches, gapes, unglues her eyes, Pursue your trade of scandal-picking,

And asks, if it be time to rise : Your hints that Stella is no chicken ;

Of head-ache and the spleen complains; Your inuendos, when you tell us,

And then, to cool her heated brains, That Stella loves to talk with fellows :

Her night-gown and her slippers brought her, And let me warn you to believe

Takes a large dram of citron-water. A truth, for which your soul should grieve;

Then to her glass; and, “ Betty, pray That, should you live to see the day

Don't I look frightfully to-day? When Stella's locks must all be grey,

But was it not confounded hard ? When age must print a furrow'd trace

Well, if I ever touch a card ! On every feature of her face;

Four mattadores, and lose codille ! Though you, and all your senseless tribe,

Depend upon 't, I never will. Could art, or time, or nature bribe,

But run to Tom, and bid him fix To make you look like beauty's queen,

The ladies here to-night by six. And hold for ever at fifteen ;

“ Madam, the goldsmith waits below; No bloom of youth can ever blind

He

says, • His business is to know The cracks and wrinkles of your mind :

If you 'U redeem the silver cup All men of sense will pass your door,

He keeps in pawn?'"-"First, show him up." And crowd to Stella's at fourscore,

Your dressing-plate he 'll be content
To take, for interest cent. per cent.

And, madam, there 's my lady Spade,

And study'd Affectation came, Hath sent this letter by her maid.”

Each limb and feature out of frame; “ Well, I remember what she won;

While Ignorance, with brain of lead, And hath she sent so soon to dun ?

Flew hovering o'er each female head. Here, carry down those ten pistoles

Why should I ask of thee, my Muse, My husband left to pay for coals :

An hundred tongues, as poets use, I thank my stars, they all are light;

When, to give every dame her due, And I may have revenge to-night.'

An hundred thousand were too few ? Now, loitering o'er her tea and cream,

Or how shall I, alas ! relate She enters on her usual theme;

The sum of all their senseless prate, Her last night's ill success repeats,

Their innuendos, hints, and slanders, Calls lady. Spade a hundred cheats:

Their meanings lewd, and double entendres? “ She slipt spadillo in her breast,

Now comes the general scandal-charge ; Then thought to turn it to a jest :

What some invent, the rest enlarge; There 's Mrs. Cut and she combine,

And, “ Madam, if it be a lie, And to each other give the sign.”

You have the tale as cheap as I: Through every game pursues her tale,

I must conceal my author's name; Like hunters o'er their evening ale.

But now 'tis known to common fame." Now to another scene give place :

Say, foolish females, bold and blind, Enter the folks with silks and lace :

Say, by what fatal turn of mind, Fresh matter for a world of chat,

Are you on vices most severe, Right Indian this, right Mechlin that:

Wherein yourselves have greatest share? “ Observe this pattern; there 's a stuff;

Thus every fool herself deludes; I can have customers enough.

The prudes condemn the absent prudes: Dear madam, you are grown so hard –

Mopsa, who stinks her spouse to death, This lace is worth twelve pounds a yard :

Accuses Chloe's tainted breath ; Madam, if there be truth in man,

Hircina, rank with sweat, presumes I never sold so cheap a fan.”

To censure Phyllis for perfumes; This business of importance o'er,

While crooked Cynthia, sneering, says And madam almost dress'd by four;

That Florimel wears iron stays : The footman, in his usual phrase,

Chloe, of every coxcomh jealous, Comes up with, “ Madam, dinner stays."

Admires how girls can talk with fellows; She answers in her usual style,

And, full of indignation, frets, “ The cook must keep it back awhile :

That women should be such coquettes : I never can have time to dress;

Iris, for scandal most notorious, (No woman breathing takes up less ;)

Cries, “ Lord, the world is so censorious!" I'm hurried so it makes me sick ;

And Rufa, with her combs of lead, I wish the dinner at Old Nick,”

Whispers that Sappho's hair is red : At table now she acts her part,

Aura, whose tongue you hear a mile hence, Has all the dinner-cant by heart :

Talks half a day in praise of silence : “ I thought we were to dine alone,

And Sylvia, full of inward guilt, My dear; for sure, if I had known

Calls Amoret an arrant jilt. This company would come to-day

Now voices over voices rise, But really 'tis my spouse's way!

While each to be the loudest vies : He's so unkind, he never sends

They contradict, affirm, dispute, To tell when he invites his friends :

No single tongue one moment mute; I wish ye may but have enough !".

All mad to speak, and none to hearken, And while with all this paltry stuff

They set the very lap-dog barking ; She sits tormenting every guest,

Their chattering makes a louder din Nor gives her tongue one moment's rest,

Than fish-wives o'er a cup of gin: In phrases batter'd, stale, and trite,

Not school-boys at a barring-out Which modern ladies call polite ;

Rais'd ever such incessant rout; You see the booby husband sit

The jumbling particles of matter In admiration at her wit.

In chaos made not such a clatter; But let me now awhile survey

Far less the rabble roar and rail, Our madam o'er her evening-tea;

When drunk with sour election ale. Surrounded with her noisy clans

Nor do they trust their tongues alone, Of prudes, coquettes, and harridans;

But speak a language of their

own ; When, frighted at the clamorous crew,

Can read a nod, a shrug, a look, Away the god of Silence few,

Far better than a printed book ; And fair Discretion left the place,

Convey a libel in a frown, And Modesty with blushing face :

And wink a reputation down; Now enters overweening Pride,

Or, by the tossing of the fan, And Scandal ever gaping wide ;

Describe the lady and the man. Hypocrisy with frown severe,

But see, the female club disbands, Scurrility with gibing air ;

Each twenty visits on her hands. Rude Laughter seeming like to burst,

Now all alone poor madam sits And Malice always judging worst;

In vapours and hysteric fits : And Vanity with pocket-glass,

“ And was not Tom this morning sent? And Impudence with front of brass;

I'd lay my life he never went:

ROCHEFOUCAULT:

Past six, and not a living soul !

But, conscious that they all speak true, I might by this have won a vole."

And give each other but their due, A drcadful interval of spleen !

It never interrupts the game, How shall we pass the time between ?

Or makes them sensible of shame. “ Here, Betty, let me take my drops;

The time too precious now to waste, And feel my pulse, I know it stops :

The supper gobbled up in haste ; This head of mine, Lord, how it swims!

Again afresh to cards they run, And such a pain in all my limbs !"

As if they had but just begun. “ Dear madam, try to take a nap."

But I shall not again repeat, But now they hear a footman's rap :

How oft they squabble, snarl, and cheat. “ Go, run, and light the ladies up:

At last they hear the watchman knock, It must be one before we sup.”

“A frosty morn — past four o'clock. The table, cards, and counters, set,

The chairmen are not to be found, And all the gamester-ladies met,

“ Come, let us play the other round.” Her spleen and fits recover'd quite,

Now all in haste they huddle on Our madam can sit up all night ;

Their hoods, their cloaks, and get them gone ; “ Whoever coines, I'm not within."

But, first, the winner must invite Quadrille 's the word, and so begin.

The company to-morrow night. How can the Muse her aid impart,

Unlucky madam, left in tears, Unskill'd in all the terms of art ?

(Who now again quadrille forswears,) Or in harmonious numbers put

With empty purse, and aching head,
The deal, the shuffle, and the cut?

Steals to her sleeping spouse to bed.
The superstitious 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

ON THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT.
Good-fortune peeping from behind;
With panting heart, and earnest eyes,

OCCASIONED BY READING THE FOLLOWING MAXIM IN In hope to see spadillo rise : In vain, alas ! her hope is fed ; She draws an ace, and sees it red;

Dans l'adversité de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons In ready counters never pays,

toujours quelque chose qui ne nous déplaît pas. But pawns her snuff-box, rings, and keys : Ever with some new fancy struck,

“ In the adversity of our best friends, we always Tries twenty charms to mend her luck.

find something that doth not displease us." “ This morning, when the parson came,

4 I said I should not win a game.

As Rochefoucault hi's máxinhs drew This odious chair, how came stuck in 't?

From nature, I believe them true : I think I never had good luck in 't.

They argue no corrupted mind I'm so uneasy in my stays ;

In him : the fault is in mankind. Your fan a moment, if you please.

This maxim more than all the rest Stand further, girl, or get you gone;

Is thought too base for human breast : I always lose when you look on.”

“ In all distresses of our friends, “ Lord ! madam, you have lost codille !

We first consult our private ends; I never saw you play so ill."

While nature, kindly bent to case us, “ Nay, madam, give me leave to say,

Points out some circumstance to please us." 'Twas you that threw the game away :

If this perhaps your patience move, When lady Tricksey play'd a four,

Let reason and experience prove. You took it with a mattadore ;

We all behold with envious eyes I saw you touch your wedding-ring

Our equals rais'd above our size. Before my lady call’d a king ;

Who would not at a crowded show You spoke a word began with H,

Stand high himself, keep others low ? And I know whom you meant to teach,

I love my friend as well as you : Because you held the king of hearts;

But why should he obstruct my view ? Fie, madam, leave these little arts.

Then let me have the higher post; “ That's not so bad as one that rubs

Suppose it but an inch at most. Her chair, to call the king of clubs;

If in a battle you should find And makes her partner understand

One, whom you love of all mankind, A mattadore is in her hand.”

Had some heroic action done, “ Madam, you have no cause to flounce,

A champion kill'd, or trophy won; I swear I saw you thrice renounce.

Rather than thus be over-topt, “ And truly, madam, I know when,

Would you not wish his laurels cropt? Instead of five, you scor'd me ten.

Dear honest Ned is in the gout, Spadillo here has got a mark ;

Lies rack'd with pain, and

you without: A child may know it in the dark: I guess'd the hand : it seldom fails :

• Written in November, 1731. There are two I wish some folks would pare their nails." distinct poems on this subject, one of them contain

While thus they rail, and scold, and storm, ing many spurious lines. In what is here printed, It passes but for common form :

the genuine parts of both are preserved. N.

I cry,

How patiently you hear him groan!

“ For poetry, he 's past his prime: How glad the case is not your own!

He takes an hour to find a rhyme; What poet would not grieve to see

His fire is out, his wit decay'd, His brother write as well as he ?

His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade. But, rather than they should excel,

I'd have him throw away his pen; Would wish his rivals all in hell ?

But there 's no talking to some men !" Her end when emulation misses,

And then their tenderness appears She turns to envy, stings, and hisses :

By adding largely to my years : The strongest friendship yields to pride,

“ He's older than he would be reckon'd, Unless the odds be on our side.

And well remembers Charles the Second. Vain human-kind! fantastic race!

He hardly drinks a pint of wine ; Thy various follies who can trace ?

And that, I doubt, is no good sign. Self-love, ambition, envy, pride,

His stomach too begins to fail ; Their empire in our heart divide.

Last year we thought him strong and hale; Give others riches, power, and station,

But now he's quite another thing : 'Tis all to me an usurpation.

I wish he may hold out till spring !" I have no title to aspire ;

They hug themselves and reason thus ; Yet, when you sink, I seem the higher.

“ It is not yet so bad with us!" In Pope I cannot read a line,

In such a case they talk in tropes, But with a sigh I wish it mine :

And by their fears express their hopes. When he can in one couplet fix

Some great misfortune to portend, More sense than I can do in six;

No enemy can match a friend. It gives me such a jealous fit,

With all the kindness they profess, “ Pox take him and his wit !"

The merit of a lucky guess I grieve to be outdone by Gay

(When daily how-d'ye's coine of course, In my own humorous biting way.

And servants answer, “ Worse and worse!") Arbuthnot is no more my friend,

Would please them better, than to tell, Who dares to irony pretend,

That, “ God be prais'd, the Dean is well." Which I was born to introduce,

Then he who prophesy'd the best, Refin'd at first, and show'd its use.

Approves his foresight to the rest : St. John, as well as Pulteney, knows

“ You know I always fear'd the worst, That I had some repute for prose;

And often told you so at first.”. And, till they drove me out of date,

He'd rather choose that I should die, Could maul a minister of state.

Than his predictions prove a lie. If they have mortified my pride,

Not one foretells I shall recover; And made me throw my pen aside ;

But, all agree to give me over. If with such talents Heaven hath bless'd 'em, Yet should some neighbour feel a pain Have I not reason to detest 'em ?

Just in the parts where I complain ; To all my foes, dear Fortune, send

How inany a message would he send ! Thy gifts; but never to my friend :

What hearty prayers that I should mend! I tamely can endure the first ;

Inquire what regimen I kept? But this with envy makes me burst.

What gave me ease, and how I slept? Thus much may serve by way of proem ;

And more lament when I was dead, Proceed we therefore to our poem.

Than all the snivellers round my bed. The time is not remote when I

My good companions, never fear; Must by the course of nature die;

For, though you may mistake a year, When, I foresee, my special friends

Though your prognostics run too fast, Will try to find their private ends :

They must be verify'd at last. And, though 'tis hardly understood

Behold the fatal day arrive! Which way my death can do them good,

“ How is the Dean?” -“He's just alire." Yet thus, methinks, I hear them speak :

Now the departing prayer is read; “ See how the Dean begins to break !

He hardly breathes – the Dean is dead Poor gentleman, he droops apace !

Before the passing-bell begun, You plainly find it in his face.

The news through half the town is run. That old vertigo in his head

“ Oh! may we all for death prepare ! Will never leave him till he's dead.

What has he left ? and who 's his heir?" Besides, his memory decays :

“ I know no more than what the news is; He recollects not what he says;

'Tis all bequeath'd to public uses." He cannot call his friends to mind;

“ To public uses! there 's a whim! Forgets the place where last he din'd;

What had the public done for him ? Plies you with stories o'er and o’er ;

Mere envy, avarice, and pride : He told them fifty times before.

He gave it all - but first he dy'd. How does he fancy we can sit

And had the Dean, in all the nation, To hear his out-of-fashion wit?

No worthy friend, no poor relation ? But he takes up with younger folks,

So ready to do strangers good, Who for his wine will bear his jokes.

Forgetting his own Aesh and blood !" Faith! he must make his stories shorter,

Now Grub-street wits are all employ'd; Or change his comrades once a quarter ;

With elegies the town is cloy'd: In half the time he talks them round,

Some paragraph in every paper, There must another set be found.

To curse the Dean, or bless the Drapier.

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