It was a most unfriendly Part In you who ought to know my Heart; And well acquainted with my Zeal For all the Females’ Common-weal. How cou’d it come into your Mind To pitch on me of all Mankind, Against the Sex to write a Satire, 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 sing, Since first I learn’d to tune a String. Methinks I hear the Ladies cry, Will he his Character belye? Must never our Misfortunes end? And have we lost our only Friend? Ah! lovely Nymph, remove your Fears, No more let fall those precious Tears, Sooner shall, etc. (_Here several verses are omitted._) The Hound be hunted by the Hare, Than I turn Rebel to the Fair. * * * * * ’Twas you engaged me first to write, Then gave the Subject out of Spite. The Journal of a Modern Dame, Is by my Promise what you claim; My Word is past, I must submit, 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 Rhimes The common Slanders of the Times, Of modern 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 shew you in the Sequel; The modern Dame is wak’d by Noon, Some authors say not quite so soon; Because, though sore against her Will, She sat all Night up at Quadrill.[10] She stretches, gapes, unglues her Eyes, And asks if it be time to rise. Of Head-ach and the Spleen complains; And then to cool her heated Brains, Her Night-gown![11] and her Slippers brought her, Takes a large Dram of Citron Water. Then to her Glass; 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 Six. Madam, the Goldsmith waits below, He says his Business is to know If you’ll redeem the Silver Cup You pawn’d to him. First, shew him up. Your Dressing Plate he’ll be content To take for Interest Cent. per Cent. And, Madam, there’s my Lady Spade Hath sent this Letter by her Maid. Well, I remember what she won; And hath she sent so soon to dun? Here, carry down those ten Pistoles My Husband left to pay for Coals: I thank my Stars they are all light; And I may have Revenge to-Night. Now, loitering o’er her Tea and Cream, She enters on her usual Theme; Her last Night’s ill Success repeats, Calls Lady Spade a hundred Cheats. She slipt Spadillo in her Breast, Then thought to turn it to a Jest. There’s Mrs. Cut and she combine,