The Modern World disrob'd or, both sexes Stript of their pretended vertue. In Two Parts. First, Of the Ladies. Secondly, Of the Gentlemen. With Familiar Descant upon every Character [by Edward Ward] |
 | I. |
Modern Quality:
|
| II. |
 | The Modern World disrob'd |  |
105
Modern Quality:
OR, The Upstart Lady.
111
Honour
, the Just should only bear,
Tho' Knaves and Harlots court it;
And ought not to be plac'd, but where
There's Merit to support it.
Tho' Knaves and Harlots court it;
And ought not to be plac'd, but where
There's Merit to support it.
'Twas not design'd for Dames to wear,
Bred to the Pot and Ladle;
The Hog or Sow, tho' fat and fair,
Will ill become a Saddle.
Bred to the Pot and Ladle;
The Hog or Sow, tho' fat and fair,
Will ill become a Saddle.
Honour should drop, when Vertue fails,
And cease when we misuse it;
Not be so fix'd to Ladies Tails,
That do so oft abuse it.
And cease when we misuse it;
Not be so fix'd to Ladies Tails,
That do so oft abuse it.
Then might the Danger of Disgrace
Make sinful Pleasures hated,
And padlock up that slip'ry Place,
Wher Female Honour's seated.
Make sinful Pleasures hated,
And padlock up that slip'ry Place,
Wher Female Honour's seated.
Proud Ladies then might vertuous prove,
To keep their lofty Titles,
And not persue what now they love
Much better than their Victuals.
To keep their lofty Titles,
And not persue what now they love
Much better than their Victuals.
112
But what great Dame will want her Fill
Of Pleasures that she prizes,
When Ladies shall be honour'd still,
In Spight of all their Vices?
Of Pleasures that she prizes,
When Ladies shall be honour'd still,
In Spight of all their Vices?
Since Fortunes are such Jilts and Shrews,
Whom Friends bestow much Cost on,
And prove as bad, or worse, than those,
Who have no Bags to boast on.
Whom Friends bestow much Cost on,
And prove as bad, or worse, than those,
Who have no Bags to boast on.
I'll praise the Dame with Vertue blest,
Altho' her Fortune's little,
Who wears her Honour in her Breast,
And not in empty Title.
Altho' her Fortune's little,
Who wears her Honour in her Breast,
And not in empty Title.
| The Modern World disrob'd | |