Last night was so extremely fine,
The ladies walk’d till after nine: 
Then, in soft voice and speech absurd,
With nonsense every second word,
With fustian from exploded plays,
They celebrate her beauty’s praise;
Run o’er their cant of stupid lies,
And tell the murders of her eyes. 
  With silent scorn Vanessa sat,
Scarce listening to their idle chat;
Farther than sometimes by a frown,
When they grew pert, to pull them down. 
At last she spitefully was bent
To try their wisdom’s full extent;
And said, she valued nothing less
Than titles, figure, shape, and dress;
That merit should be chiefly placed
In judgment, knowledge, wit, and taste;
And these, she offer’d to dispute,
Alone distinguish’d man from brute: 
That present times have no pretence
To virtue, in the noble sense
By Greeks and Romans understood,
To perish for our country’s good. 
She named the ancient heroes round,
Explain’d for what they were renown’d;
Then spoke with censure or applause
Of foreign customs, rites, and laws;
Through nature and through art she ranged
And gracefully her subject changed;
In vain! her hearers had no share
In all she spoke, except to stare. 
Their judgment was, upon the whole,
—­That lady is the dullest soul!—­
Then tapt their forehead in a jeer,
As who should say—­She wants it here! 
She may be handsome, young, and rich,
But none will burn her for a witch! 
  A party next of glittering dames,
From round the purlieus of St. James,
Came early, out of pure good will,
To see the girl in dishabille. 
Their clamour, ’lighting from their chairs
Grew louder all the way up stairs;
At entrance loudest, where they found
The room with volumes litter’d round. 
Vanessa held Montaigne, and read,
While Mrs. Susan comb’d her head. 
They call’d for tea and chocolate,
And fell into their usual chat,
Discoursing with important face,
On ribbons, fans, and gloves, and lace;
Show’d patterns just from India brought,
And gravely ask’d her what she thought,
Whether the red or green were best,
And what they cost?  Vanessa guess’d
As came into her fancy first;
Named half the rates, and liked the worst. 
To scandal next—­What awkward thing
Was that last Sunday in the ring? 
I’m sorry Mopsa breaks so fast: 
I said her face would never last. 
Corinna, with that youthful air,
Is thirty, and a bit to spare: 
Her fondness for a certain earl
Began when I was but a girl! 
Phillis, who but a month ago
Was married to the Tunbridge beau,
I saw coquetting t’other night
In public with that odious knight! 
  They rallied next Vanessa’s dress: 
That gown was made for old Queen Bess. 
Dear madam, let me see your head: 
Don’t you intend to put on red? 
A petticoat without a hoop! 
Sure, you are not ashamed to stoop!