Poems on Various Subjects :: :: University of Virginia Library

This wit was with experience bought,
(And that's the best of wit 'tis thought)
That when a woman dares indite,
And seek in print the public sight,
All tongues are presently in motion,
About her person, mind, and portion;
And ev'ry blemish, ev'ry fault,
Unseen before, to light is brought.

326

Nay generously they take the trouble
Those blemishes and faults to double.

Whene'er you chance her name to hear,
With a contemptuous smiling sneer
A prude exclaims, O she's a wit!
And I've observ'd that epithet
Mean self-conceit, ill-nature, pride,
And fifty hateful things beside.

The Men are mighty apt to say,
This silly girl has lost her way;
No doubt she thinks we must admire,
And such a rhiming wit desire;
But here her folly does appear,
We never chuse a learned fair.
Nor like to see a woman try
With our superior parts to vie.
She ought to mind domestic cares;
The sex were made for such affairs.
She'd better take in hand the needle,
And not pretend to rhime and riddle.
Shall women thus usurp the pen?
That weapon nature made for men:
Presumptuous thing! how did she dare
This implement from us to tear?

327

In short, if women are allow'd,
(Women by nature vain and proud)
Thus boldly on the press to seize,
And say in print whate'er they please,
They'll soon their lawful lords despise,
And think themselves as sybils wise.

Thus far the men their wit display,
Let's hear now what the women say:

Now we'll suppose a tattling set
Of females o'er tea-table met,
While from its time-consuming streams
Arise a hundred idle themes,
Of fans, of flounces, flys and faces,
Of lapdogs, lovers, lawns and laces.
At length this well-known foe to fame,
In luckless hour brings forth my name:
Then they exclaim with great good-nature,
O Lord! that witty, rhiming creature!
Alternate then their parts sustain;
Pray don't you think she's mighty vain,
Says one;—no doubt, another cries;
Vain,—lord, of what? a third replies.
What tho' suppose the thing can rhime,
And on the changing numbers chime,
No merit lies in that, 'tis plain,
And others if they were as vain,

328

I make no doubt, cou'd write as well,
Would they but try, perhaps excel.

Then thus Philantha, in whose breast
Good-nature is a constant guest,
I own I've heard before with pain
Some people call her proud and vain,
I know her well, yet ne'er could see
This mighty pride, and vanity.

You, Madam, are I find her friend,
But I can never apprehend,
She ever yet a poem penn'd.
They're all another's work, no doubt,
With which she makes this mighty rout.

That's very like; but, Miss, suppose,
She does the tedious stuff compose;
Yet for my part tho' some may praise,
And stick the creature out with bays,
I can see nothing in the scrawls,
That for such vast encomiums calls.
'Tis true, in length if merit lies,
From all she'll bear away the prize.

This for her poems may be said,
They're mighty good to lull the head;

329

For nothing there picquant you'll find
To raise a laugh, or rouse the mind.
No doctor's opiate can exceed 'em,
Whene'er I want a nap I read 'em.

Philantha then—'tis so well known,
That all those poems are her own,
I wonder any one can doubt it,
Or have a single thought about it;
And oft' I've heard the lines commended,
Then all allow they're well intended.

That may perhaps be true enough,
But who's the better for her stuff.
I see no difference in the times,
The world's not mended by her rhimes.
She to the men I apprehend,
Intends herself to recommend
By scribbling verses, but she'll find,
They don't so much regard the mind;
For tho' they're civil to her face,
'Tis all a farce, and meer grimace;
Her back once turn'd, I've heard 'em swear,
They hated wisdom in the fair.

Then she's so nice, and so resin'd
About the morals, and the mind,

330

That really, Madam, I'm afraid,
This rhiming wit will die a maid;
And if she weds, it is high time,
I think she's almost past her prime.
Why with the men as I've been told,
She'll paper conversation hold.

Madam that's fact, I long have known it,
Without a blush i've heard her own it.

Good Lord, some women are so bold,
I vow, I blush to hear it told.
I hate censoriousness, but when
Girls freely correspond with men,
I can't forbear to speak my mind,
Altho' to scandal ne'er inclin'd.
Well, I protest I never yet
To any man a letter writ;
It may be innocent 'tis true,
But 'tis a thing I ne'er could do.

Well cry'd Philantha, I protest,
I almost think you are in jest,
For really, miss, I cannot see
In this the breach of modesty;
With men we chat away our time,
And none regard it as a crime;

331

And where's the difference if we write,
'Tis but our words in black and white.
I think, we may without offence,
Converse by pen with men of sense.

Well let us say no more about her,
But entertain ourselves without her;
No harm I meant, nor none I wish;
Miss won't you drink another dish?
Not one drop more, I thank you, madam,
Here take away the tea-things, Adam.
And bring the cards, and since we're met,
Pray let us make at whist a set.

Thus tea and scandal, cards and fashion,
Destroy the time of half the nation.

But Sir, methinks, 'tis very hard
From pen, and ink to be debarr'd:
Are simple women only fit,
To dress, to darn, to flower, or knit,
To mind the distaff, or the spit.

Why are the needle and the pen,
Thought incompatible by men?
May we not sometimes use the quill,
And yet be careful housewifes still?

332

Why is it thought in us a crime
To utter common-sense in rhime?
Why must each rhimer be a wit?
Why mark'd with that loath'd epithet?
For envy, hatred, scorn, or fear,
To wit, you know, are often near.
Good-natur'd wit, polite, refin'd,
Which seeks to please, not pain the mind,
How rare to find! for O, how few
Have true and gen'rous wit like you!
Your mind in different mould was cast,
To raise a character, not blast;
Please to encourage what I write,
And smile upon my humble flight.

1748.