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 booby 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 God of Silence flew,
And fair Discretion left the place,
And modesty with blushing 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 glass,
And Impudence with front of brass;
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,