University of Virginia Library

“Children, like tender osiers, take the bow,
And as they first are fashioned, always grow.”

Thus spoke the bard; and 'tis a moral truth,
That precept and example, taught in youth,
Dwell on the mind till life's dull scene is past;
Clinging about us even to the last.
And women, pray for folly don't upbraid them,
Are just such things, as education made them.

The girl, who from her birth is thought a beauty,
Scarce ever hears of virtue, sense or duty;
Mamma, delighted with each limb and feature,
Declares, she is a fascinating creature;
Forbids all study, work, or wise reflection;
'Twill spoil her eyes, or injure her complexion.
“Hold up your head, my dear; turn out your toes;
Bless me, whats that? a pimple on your nose;
It smarts, dear, don't it? how can you endure it?
Here's some Pomade divine, to heal and cure it.”
Then, every little master, that comes near her,
Is taught to court, to flatter, or to fear her.
Nurse or Mamma cries, “See, my dearest life,
There's Charley, you shall be his little wife;
Smile my sweet creature; Charley, come and kiss her,
And tell me, is she not a pretty miss, sir?
Give her that orange; fruit, fine clothes, and toys,
Were made for little ladies, not for boys.”

Thus, ere one proper wish her heart can move,
She's taught to think of lovers, and of love;
She's told she is a beauty, does not doubt it;
What need of sense? beauties can wed without it.
And then her eyes, her teeth, her lips, her hair,
And shape, are all that can be worth her care;
She thinks a kneeling world should bow before her,
And men were but created to adore her.
But call her to the active scenes of life,
As friend, as daughter, mother, mistress, wife;
You scarce can find, in the whole course of nature,
A more unfortunate or helpless creature.
Untaught the smallest duty of her station,
She stands, a cypher in the vast creation.
Her husband 'might perhaps expect to find
The angel's form contain'd an angel's mind.
Alas, poor man! time will the veil remove;
She had no fault. No! you were blind with love;
You flatter'd, idolized, made her your wife;
She thought these halcyon days would last for life.
At every small neglect, from her bright eyes
The lightning flashes; then she pouts and cries;
When th' angel sinks, I fear, alas, in common,
Into a downwright captious, teazing woman;
And if a reasonable friend was sought,
To counsel, sooth, or share each anxious thought,
Poor man! your disappointment I lament;
You've a long life before you—to repent.

“Dear,” cries mamma, whose only merit lies
In making puddings, good preserves, and pies;
Who rises with Aurora, blythe and cheery,
Feeds pigs and poultry, overlooks her dairy,
Brews her own beer, makes her own household linen,
And scolds her girls, to make them mind their spinning—
“Dear, surely Tom was blind; what could he see,
To think of marrying such a thing as she?
She was a beauty; what is beauty? pshaw!
I never knew a beauty worth a straw.
She's so eat up with pride, conceit, and folly,
I vow she knows no more than little Molly,
Whether a pig were better roast or boil'd;
I warrant many a dinner will be spoil'd.
But I'll take care, whoever weds my daughter
Shall find a different lesson, I have taught her.
My Bett's fifteen next May; I'd lay a crown,
She'd cook a dinner with the best in town;
To roast, or boil, make pudding, pye or jelly,
There's not her equal far or near, I tell ye.
Then at her needle, making, mending, darning,
What is there else that's worth a woman's larning?
With my good will, a girl should never look
In any but a pray'r or cook'ry book:
Reading 'bout kings,and states, and foreign nations,
Will only fill their heads with proclamations.”
If of these documents a girl's observant,
What is she fit for, but an upper servant?

Behold Miss Tasty every nymph excel,
A fine, accomplished, fashionable belle.
Plac'd at the harpsichord, see with what ease
Her snowy fingers run along the keys;
Now quite in alt, to th' highest notes she'll go;
Now running down the bass, she falls as low;
Flats, sharps, and naturals, together jumbled,
She laughs to think how little folks are humbled.
While some pretending coxcomb sighing, says,
So loud that she may hear, “Heavens, how she plays.”
Then she speaks French. Comment vouz portez vouz?
Ma chere amie! ma vie! oh ciel! mon dieu!
And dances—sink, chasse, and rigadoon,
Or hops along, unheeding time or tune,
As fashion may direct. Laughs loud, and talks,
And with a more than manly swagger, walks,
Swinging her arms with an undaunted air;
And should occasion serve, perhaps she'll swear.
Beckon's some chattering ape across the room,
And call him, dev'lish wretch, should he presume
To tap her cheek, or neck; while 'tis her aim,
To tempt some other fop to do the same;
Sinks to a level with each frothy fool,
And turns the man of sense to ridicule.
How wretched, how deplorable his fate,
Who gets this fluttering insect for a mate.
If he has sense, tho' love might blind his eyes,
He'll find his sight too late; loath and despise;
And being bound for life, past help! past hope!
Wish for a poniard, pistol, or a rope.

“Ah! wo is me,” poor Lindamira cries,
The drop pellucid trembling in her eyes;
“Ah! wo is me, I see where'er I turn
Some folly to lament, some wo to mourn.”
“Yes,” cries mamma, “my lovely girl, I see,
You caught your sensibility from me;
I ne'er could read a fine wrought scene of wo,
But that my sighs would heave, my tears would flow;
And my sweet child does credit to her breeding,
Admires sentiments, and doats on reading.”
Poor Lindamira, deep in novels read,
When married, keeps the path she was taught to tread
And while the novel's page she's eager turning,
The pot boils over, and the meat is burning;
And while she is weeping o'er ideal woes,
Her poor neglected little infant goes
With uncomb'd hair, torn frock, and naked toes.
Her husband disappointed, quits his home,
At clubs to loiter, or with bucks to roam;
While Lindamira still the tale pursues,
And in each heroine, her own sorrow views.

See fair Roxana; mark with what a grace
She moves, all heaven reflected in her face;
She lifts her beauteous eyes, she smiles and speaks;
The laughing loves sits on her dimpled cheeks.
That is the face she wears on holydays;
At home, on those she dares, the nymph repays
Herself for this restraint. Not the smooth waves,
That undulating soft, the meadows lave;
And the rough ocean, when the billows rise,
Lash'd by Borean blasts, and threat the skies;
Not fair Aurora, when with balmy breath
She wafts perfume along the dewy heath;
And the fierce North, when a black cloud deforms
The face of heaven, portending thunder storms;
Not the mild flame, that on a win'try night
Sheds its reviving warmth, and cheerful light;
And Devastation, with her flaming brand,
Wide spreading conflagration through the land;
Appear more diff'rent, than Roxana's face,
When, dress'd in smiles, she puts on every grace,
And this Roxana, the mask thrown aside,
Flashing vindictive ire, and sullen pride;
Or when, with discontent or envy stung,
She darts rude satire, from her taunting tongue.
Fond youth, beware! wilfully be not blind,
That Juno's form has Juno's haughty mind.
You might as well expect, secure to sleep
In a slight skiff, upon the raging deep,
As find one happy moment in your life,
If fair Roxana should become your wife.
Black looks, or sullen tears, at each repast,
Will make each day more wretched than the last;
Till vex'd, and wearied, you abroad shall roam,
For that content you vainly sought at home:
Convinc'd her spirit will not brook control,
The galling chain will rankle in your soul,
And you would fly e'en to the farthest pole,
From the fair fury, from the madd'ning scene,
And set th' expanded universe between.

Methinks I hear some man exulting swear,
“Why, this is really “Women as they are.”
Pardon me, sir, I'll speak, I'm not afraid;
I'll tell you what they are, what might be made.
When the Creator form'd this world in common,
His last, best work, his master-piece, was woman.
Ta'en from the side of man, and next his heart,
Of all his virtues she partakes a part;
And from that source, poor woman got a share
Of vice and folly, mingled here and there.
But would you treat us, scorning custom's rules,
As reasonable beings, not as fools,
And from our earliest youth, would condescend
To form our minds, strengthen, correct, amend;
Teach us to scorn those fools, whose only joys
Are plac'd in trifling, idleness and noise;
Teach us to prize the power of intellect;
And whilst inspiring love, to keep respect;
You'd meet the sweet reward of all your care;
Find in us friends, your purest joys to share;
You then would own the choicest boom of Heaven,
The happiest lot that can to man be given,
To smooth the rugged path, and sweeten life,
Is an affectionate and faithful wife.