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 sex 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. 
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 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 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 pawn?”—­“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