On the Countess of B--- cutting Paper.
Pallas grew vap'rish once and odd,
She would not do the least right thing,
Either for Goddess or for God,
Nor work, nor play, nor paint, nor sing.
Jove frown'd, and “Use (he cry'd) those Eyes
“So skilful and those Hands so taper;
“Do something exquisite, and wise—”
She bow'd, obey'd him, and cut Paper.
This vexing him who gave her Birth,
Thought by all Heav'n a burning Shame;
What does she next, but bids on Earth
Her B---l---n do just the same.
Pallas, you give yourself strange Airs;
But sure you'll find it hard to spoil
The Sense and Taste of one that bears
The Name of Savil and of Boyle.
Alas! one bad Example shown,
How quickly all the Sex pursue!
See Madam! see, the Arts o'erthrown,
Between John Overton and You.
