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Let me among the rest attend,
Your pupil and your humble friend,
To celebrate in female firains
The day that paid your mother's pains ;
Descend to take that tribute due
In gratitude alone to you.

When men began to call me fair,
You interpos'd your timely care ;
You early taught me to despise
The ogling of a coxcomb's eyes ;
Shew'd where my judgment was misplac'd;
Refin'd my fancy and my taste.

Behold that beauty just decay'd,
Invoking art to nature's aid;
Forsook by her admiring train,
She spreads her tatter'd nets in vain ;
Short was her part upon the stage ;
Went smoothly on for half a page;
Her bloom was gone, she wanted art,
As the scene chang'd, to change her part:
She, whom no lover could refift,
Before the second act was hiss’d.
Such is the fate of female race
With no endowments but a face ;
Before the thirti'th year of life
A maid forlorn, or hated wife.

STELLA to you, her tutor, owes
That she has ne'er resembled thole ;
Nor was a burden to mankind
With half her course of years behind.
You taught how I might youth prolong,
By knowing what was right and wrong i
How from my heart to bring fupplies
Of lufre to my fading eyes ;-
How foon a beauteous mind repairs
The lofs of chang‘d or falling hairs ;




How wit and virtue from within
Send out a smoothness o'er the skin :
Your lectures could my fancy fix,
And I can ploase at thirty-fix.
The fight of Chloe at fifteen
Coquetting, gives not me the Spleen;
The idol now of every fool

Till time shall make their passions cool ;
Then tumbling down time's steepy hill,
While Stella holds her station still.
Oh I turn your precepts into laws,
Redeem the women's ruin'd cause,
Retrieve lost empire to our sex,
That men may bow their rebel necks.

Long be the day that gave you birth Sacred to friendship, wit, and mirth ; Late dying may you cast a shred

SS rich mantle o'er my head ; To bear with dignity my forrow, One day alone, iben die 10-morrow. The JOURNAL of a MODERN LADY.

Of your

Written in 1728.

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It was a moft unfriendly part

In you, who ought to know my beart,
So 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 fatire,
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 fing,
Since first I learn'd to tune a string?

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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, &c.

[Here several verses are omitted.]
The bound be hunted by the hare,
han I turn rebel to the fair.


'Twas you engag'd me first to write; Then gave the subject out of fpite :

The journal of a modern dame
Is by my promise what you claim,
My word is paft, I must fubmit ;
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 moderu 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 thew you in the sequel),
The modern dame is wak'd by noon,
(Some authors fay, not quite so soon);
Because, tho' sore against her will,
She fat all night up at Quadrille.
She stretches, gapes, unglues her eyes,
And asks if it be time to rise ;
Of headach and the spleen complains ;
And then to cool her heated brains,

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Her night-gown and her slippers brought her,
Takes a large dram of citron-water.
Then to her glafs ; 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 fix."
Madam, the goldsmith waits below;
He says, his bufiness is to know'
If you'll redeem the filver cup:
He keeps in pawn? -"Why, few him up."
Your dressing-plate he'll be content
To take, for int'reft cent. per cento
And, Madam, there's my Lady Spade
Hath sent this letter by her maid.,
" Well, I remember what she won ;
u And hath the sent so soon to dun ??


down those 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, loit'ring o'er her tea and cream, She enters on her usual theme ; Her laft night's ill success repeats, : Calls Lady Spade a hundred cheats : “ She Nipt Spadilio in her breast, “ Then thought to turn it to a jest: 4. There's Mrs Cut and she combine, * And to each other give the sign." Thro' ev'ry game pursues her tale, Like hunters o'er their ev'ning-ale.

Now to another scene give place : Enter the folks with filks' and lace :.


• Here,

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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 fold fo cheap a fan.


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This bus'ness 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 with 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 fits tormenting ev'ry guest,
Nor gives her tongue one moment's rest,
In phrases batter'd, ftale, and trite,
Which modern ladies call polite ;
You see the booby husband fit
In admiration at her wit !




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