Читать книгу Eighteenth Century Waifs - Ashton John - Страница 3

Sir,

It was a most unfriendly Part

In you who ought to know my Heart;

And well acquainted with my Zeal

For all the Females’ Common-weal.

How cou’d 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 ceas’d to sing,

Since first I learn’d to tune a String.

Methinks I hear the Ladies cry,

Will he his Character belye?

Must never our Misfortunes end?

And have we lost our only Friend?

Ah! lovely Nymph, remove your Fears,

No more let fall those precious Tears,

Sooner shall, etc.

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 Rhimes

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 shew you in the Sequel;

The modern Dame is wak’d by Noon,

Some authors say not quite so soon;

Because, though sore against her Will,

She sat all Night up at Quadrill.10

She stretches, gapes, unglues her Eyes,

And asks if it be time to rise.

Of Head-ach and the Spleen complains;

And then to cool her heated Brains,

Her Night-gown!11 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 Mattadores, and lose Codill;

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

You pawn’d to him. First, shew him up.

Your Dressing Plate he’ll be content

To take for Interest Cent. per Cent.

And, Madam, there’s my Lady Spade

Hath sent this Letter by her Maid.

Well, I remember what she won;

And hath she sent so soon to dun?

Here, carry down those ten Pistoles

My Husband left to pay for Coals:

I thank my Stars they are all 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 ev’ry 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 Macklin 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 paultry 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 Ev’ning Tea;

Surrounded with her Noisy Clans

Of Prudes, Coquets, 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 over-weening 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 hov’ring o’er each Female Head.

Why should I ask of thee, my Muse,

An Hundred Tongues, as Poets use,

When, to give ev’ry Dame her due,

An Hundred Thousand were too few!

Or how should I, alas! relate,

The Sum of all their Senseless Prate,

Their Inuendo’s, Hints, and Slanders,

Their Meanings lewd, and double Entanders.12

Now comes the general Scandal Charge,

What some invent, the rest enlarge;

And, Madam, if it he a Lye,

You have the tale as cheap as I:

I must conceal my Author’s Name,

But now ’tis known to common Fame.

Say, foolish Females, Old and Blind,

Say, by what fatal Turn of Mind,

Are you on Vices most severe,

Wherein yourselves have greatest Share?

Thus every Fool herself deludes,

The Prudes condemn the absent Prudes.

Mopsa who stinks her Spouse to Death,

Accuses Chloe’s tainted Breath:

Hircina, rank with Sweat, presumes

To censure Phillis for Perfumes:

While crooked Cynthia swearing, says,

That Florimel wears Iron Stays.

Chloe’s of ev’ry Coxcomb jealous,

Admires13 how Girls can talk with Fellows,

And, full of Indignation, frets

That Women should be such Coquets.

Iris, for Scandal most notorious,

Cries, Lord, the world is so censorious;

And Rufa, with her Combs of Lead,14

Whispers that Sappho’s Hair is Red.

Aura, whose Tongue you hear a Mile hence,

Talks half a day in Praise of Silence:

And Silvia, full of inward Guilt,

Calls Amoret an arrant Jilt.

Now Voices over Voices rise;

While each to be the loudest vies,

They contradict, affirm, dispute,

No single Tongue one Moment mute;

All mad to speak, and none to hearken,

They set the very Lap-Dog barking;

Their Chattering makes a louder Din

Than Fish-Wives o’er a Cup of Gin;

Not School-boys at a Barring-out,

Raised ever such incessant Rout:

The Shumbling (sic) Particles of Matter

In Chaos make not such a Clatter;

Far less the Rabble roar and rail,

When Drunk with sour Election Ale.

Nor do they trust their Tongue alone,

To speak a Language of their own;

Can read a Nod, a Shrug, a Look;

Far better than a printed Book;

Convey a Libel in a Frown,

And wink a Reputation down;

Or, by the tossing of the Fan,

Describe the Lady and the Man.

But, see the Female Club disbands,

Each, twenty Visits on her Hands:

Now, all alone, poor Madam sits,

In Vapours and Hysterick Fits;

And was not Tom this Morning sent?

I’d lay my Life he never went:

Past Six, and not a living Soul!

I might by this have won a Vole.

A dreadful Interval of Spleen!

How shall we pass the Time between?

Here, Betty, let me take my Drops,

And feel my Pulse, I know it stops:

This Head of mine, Lord, how it Swims!

And such a Pain in all my Limbs!

Dear Madam, try to take a Nap:

But now they hear a Foot-Man’s Rap;

Go, run, and light the Ladies up;

It must be One before we Sup.

The Table, Cards, and Counters set,

And all the Gamester Ladies met,

Her Spleen and Fits recover’d quite,

Our Madam can sit up all Night;

Whoever comes, I’m not within,

Quadrill the Word, and so begin.

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 Superfluous 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 could not win a Game.

This odious Chair, how came I stuck in’t?

I think I’ve never had good Luck in’t.

I’m so uneasy in my Stays:

Your Fan, a Moment, if you please.

Stand further, Girl, or get you gone,

I always lose when you look on.

Lord! Madam, you have lost Codill;

I never saw you play so ill.

Nay, Madam, give me leave to say

’Twas you that threw the game away;

When Lady Tricksy 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 mean 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 twice renounce.

And truly, Madam, I know when

Instead of Five you scor’d me Ten.

Spadillo here has got a Mark,

A Child may know it in the Dark:

I Guess 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;

Are conscious that they all speak true,

And give each other but their due;

It never interrupts the Game,

Or makes ’em sensible of Shame.

Time too precious now to waste,

The Supper gobbled up in haste:

Again a-fresh to Cards they run,

As if they had but just begun;

Yet shall I not again repeat

How oft they Squabble, Snarl, and Cheat:

At last they hear the Watchman Knock,

A frosty Morn … Past Four a-clock.

The Chair-men are not to be found,

Come, let us play the t’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 Quadrill forswears,

With empty Purse and aching Head,

Steals to her sleeping Spouse to Bed.