The Prudes condemn the absent Prudes. Mopsa who stinks her Spouse to Death, Accuses Chloe’s tainted Breath: Hircina, rank with Sweat, presumes To censure Phillis for Perfumes: While crooked Cynthia swearing, says, That Florimel wears Iron Stays. Chloe’s of ev’ry Coxcomb jealous, Admires[13] how Girls can talk with Fellows, And, full of Indignation, frets That Women should be such Coquets. Iris, for Scandal most notorious, Cries, Lord, the world is so censorious; And Rufa, with her Combs of Lead,[14] Whispers that Sappho’s Hair is Red. Aura, whose Tongue you hear a Mile hence, Talks half a day in Praise of Silence: And Silvia, full of inward Guilt, Calls Amoret an arrant Jilt. Now Voices over Voices rise; While each to be the loudest vies, They contradict, affirm, dispute, No single Tongue one Moment mute; All mad to speak, and none to hearken, They set the very Lap-Dog barking; Their Chattering makes a louder Din Than Fish-Wives o’er a Cup of Gin; Not School-boys at a Barring-out, Raised ever such incessant Rout: The Shumbling (_sic_) Particles of Matter In Chaos make not such a Clatter; Far less the Rabble roar and rail, When Drunk with sour Election Ale. Nor do they trust their Tongue alone, To speak a Language of their own; Can read a Nod, a Shrug, a Look; Far better than a printed Book; Convey a Libel in a Frown, And wink a Reputation down; Or, by the tossing of the Fan, Describe the Lady and the Man. But, see the Female Club disbands, Each, twenty Visits on her Hands: Now, all alone, poor Madam sits, In Vapours and Hysterick Fits; And was not Tom this Morning sent? I’d lay my Life he never went: Past Six, and not a living Soul! I might by this have won a Vole. A dreadful Interval of Spleen! How shall we pass the Time between? Here, Betty, let me take my Drops, And feel my Pulse, I know it stops: This Head of mine, Lord, how it Swims! And such a Pain in all my Limbs! Dear Madam, try to take a Nap: But now they hear a Foot-Man’s Rap; Go, run, and light the Ladies up; It must be One before we Sup. The Table, Cards, and Counters set, And all the Gamester Ladies met, Her Spleen and Fits recover’d quite, Our Madam can sit up all Night; Whoever comes, I’m not within, Quadrill the Word, and so begin. How can the Muse her Aid impart, Unskill’d in all the Terms of Art? Or, in harmonious Numbers, put The Deal, the Shuffle, and the Cut? The Superfluous Whims relate, That fill a Female Gamester’s Pate: What Agony of Soul she feels To see a Knave’s inverted Heels; She draws up Card by Card, to find Good Fortune peeping from behind; With panting Heart and earnest Eyes, In hope to see Spadillo rise; In vain, alas! her Hope is fed,