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 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
Good fortune peeping from behind;
With panting heart, and earnest eyes,
In hope to see spadillo rise;
In vain, alas! her hope is fed;
She draws an ace, and sees it red;
In ready counters never pays,
But pawns her snuff-box, rings, and keys;
Ever with some new fancy struck,
Tries twenty charms to mend her luck. 
“This morning, when the parson came,
I said I should not win a game. 
This odious chair, how came I stuck in’t? 
I think I never had good luck in’t. 
I’m so uneasy in my stays: 
Your fan, a moment, if you please. 
Stand farther, girl, or get you gone;
I always lose when you look on.” 
“Lord! madam, you have lost codille: 
I never saw you play so ill.” 
“Nay, madam, give me leave to say,
’Twas you that threw the game away: 
When Lady Tricksey play’d a four,
You took it with a matadore;
I saw you touch your wedding ring
Before my lady call’d a king;
You spoke a word began with H,
And I know whom you meant to teach,
Because you held the king of hearts;
Fie, madam, leave these little arts.” 
“That’s not so bad as one that rubs
Her chair to call the king of clubs;
And makes her partner understand
A matadore is in her hand.” 
“Madam, you have no cause to flounce,
I swear I saw you thrice renounce.” 
“And truly, madam, I know when
Instead of five you scored me ten. 
Spadillo here has got a mark;
A child may know it in the dark: 
I guess’d the hand:  it seldom fails: 
I wish some folks would pare their nails.” 
  While thus they rail, and scold, and storm,
It passes but for common form: 
But, conscious that they all speak true,
And give each other but their due,
It never interrupts the game,
Or makes them sensible of shame. 
  The time too precious now to waste,
The supper gobbled up in haste;
Again afresh to cards they run,
As if they had but just begun. 
But I shall not again repeat,
How oft they squabble, snarl, and cheat. 
At last they hear the watchman knock,
“A frosty morn—­past four o’clock.” 
The chairmen are not to be found,
“Come, let us play the other round.” 
  Now all in haste they huddle on
Their hoods, their cloaks, and get them gone;
But, first, the winner must invite
The company to-morrow night. 
  Unlucky madam, left in tears,
(Who now again quadrille forswears,)
With empty purse, and aching head,
Steals to her sleeping spouse to bed.

THE LOGICIANS REFUTED