And bang the door right in his face: Thus it will seem you scorn to league In e'er so harmless an intrigue. 'Tis one thing this, but quite another If slight flirtations please the mother. 'Twould fill a volume to impart The intricacies of your art: Now is the time, I must insist, For you to play the moralist, And use, as heretofore, your forces To favour wedlock--not divorces! Whilst you abhor, beyond denial, The witness-box upon a trial. You can detect each would-be 'Rover' From the sincere Platonic lover; Yet stir up jealousy's sensation Among the 'lords of the creation,' Causing the spouse compunctuous rubs, Who dines too often at the Clubs. Some one or other always spelling To know the secrets of the dwelling, Your plan must be (again confest) To humour those who pay the best; Nor yield, without remuneration, 'Pry-ority of information!' But faith! with you 'tis too assuming, And really over-much presuming, To such a subject to advert: Your sisterhood are so expert, And all so perfectly discreet, Really there's but one more to cheat,-- (Yes, really on my life it's true,) When any one has diddled _you_. Besides, the undefined result Is fifty times more difficult Than all the shuffling and evasions Our Masters need on like occasions: Wherefore, with diffidence, I bend to Some abler pen than I pretend to. THE FOOTMAN. THE Footman's office is a mix'd one, Employ of all kinds, and no fix'd one; You're up to all things--devil doubt you, None in the house can do without you. If bold as brass, and smart and tall, You'll be a fav'rite with 'em all; All will admire when you approve, With you the maids are all in love. Your Master'll dress to please your whim, Sometimes you stoop to copy him! But scarcely any thing goes on Without first asking, "What says John?" You see the world, know fashions, men, Have loftier airs than one in ten; Amongst the fair so famed for slaughter, P'raps captivate your Master's daughter! [Illustration: THE FOOTMAN.]