But, if from little learning danger rose, 50 I know not who in safety could repose. The evil rises from our own mistake, When we our ignorance for knowledge take; Or when the little that we have, through pride And vain poor self-love view’d, is magnified. Nor is your deepest Azure always free From these same dangerous calls of vanity. Yet of the sex are those who never show, By way of exhibition, what they know. Their books are read and praised, and so are they, 60 But all without design, without display. Is there not One who reads the hearts of men, And paints them strongly with unrivall’d pen? All their fierce Passions in her scenes appear; Terror she bids arise, bids fall the tear; Looks in the close recesses of the mind, And gives the finish’d portraits to mankind, By skill conducted, and to Nature true— And yet no man on earth would call JOANNA _Blue_! Not so MIRANDA! She is ever prest 70 To give opinions, and she gives her best. To these with gentle smile her guests incline, Who come to hear, improve, applaud—and dine. Her hungry mind on every subject feeds; She Adam Smith and Dugald Stewart reads; Locke entertains her, and she wonders why His famous Essay is consider’d dry. For her amusement in her vacant hours Are earths and rocks, and animals and flowers; She could the farmer at his work assist, 80 A systematic agriculturist. Some men, indeed, would curb the female mind, Nor let us see that they themselves are blind; But—thank our stars!—the liberal times allow, That all may think, and men have rivals now. Miranda deems all knowledge might be gain’d— “But she is idle, nor has much attain’d; Men are in her deceived: she knows at most A few light matters, for she scorns to boast. Her mathematic studies she resign’d— 90 They did not suit the genius of her mind. She thought indeed the higher parts sublime, But then they took a monstrous deal of time!” Frequent and full the letters she delights To read in part; she names not him who writes— But here and there a precious sentence shows, Telling what literary debts she owes. Works, yet unprinted, for her judgment come, “Alas!” she cries, “and I must seal their doom. Sworn to be just, the judgment gives me pain— 100 Ah! why must truth be told, or man be vain?” Much she has written, and still deigns to write, But not an effort yet must see the light. “Cruel!” her friends exclaim; “unkind, unjust!” But, no! the envious mass she will not trust; Content to hear that fame is due to her, Which on her works the world might not confer— Content with loud applauses while she lives; Unfelt the pain the cruel critic gives. II.