Fain wou'd I, Ladies, briefly know How you have injur'd Bully _Beau_; That he thus falls, with so much noise, Upon your Trinkets, and your Toys? Something was in't; for I protest t' ye, He has most wonderfully drest ye: Nor has his Wrath spar'd ye an inch, To set ye out in Pedlars French; And all his Readers to possess, That Women conjure when they dress: Malicious _Beau_-Design, to make The Ladies Dressing-Room to speak Hard Words, unknown to all their Gransires; The Language like of Necromancers. Heavens! must Men still be at th' Mercies Of new _Medeas_, and new _Circes_; Not working by the fatal Powers Of old inchanting Herbs and Flowers; But by the Magick of their Garments, Conspiring to renew our Torments? I'll not believe the venomous Satyr, It cannot be in Ladies Nature, So amiable, sweet, and active, To Study Magical Attractive; As if they Wanted Help of _Endor_, Their Graces more Divine to render. Rather we think this _Jargonry_ Beyond the Skill of Doctor Dee: Hell's Preacher, _Phlegyas,_ from below, Call'd up, and hous'd in carnal _Beau_; With wicked Hells _Enthusiasm_, Between each Sex to make a _Chasm_; For _Virgil_, never tax'd of Nonsense; Nor yet provok'd, to injure Lady Brings in the same infernal Rabbi, Among the Damn'd, disturb'd in Conscience; And stirr'd with like Satyrick Rage, Against the Females of that Age. Ingratefull Rhimer! thus to vex The more refin'd and lovely Sex, By acting like officious Novice, Informer in the Devil's _Crown-Office_, If we mayn't rather take him for Some busie, bold Apparator, In Satan's Commons Court of Arches, By his more Feminine Researches: Tho' what if many a tainted Whore Tormented him before his hour, 'Twas mean Revenge, howe'er, to fall On the whole Sex in general; 'Cause 'twas his ill luck still to light On Ware unsound, for want of Wit. What if the Ladies will be brave, Why may not they a Language have To wrap their Trinkets up in Mystery? Since Men are much more blam'd in History, For tying up their Slipper peaks With Silver Chains, that reach'd their Necks. Was't not, d'ye think, a pleasant sight, To see the smiling Surgeon slit The swelling Figs, in Bum behind, Caught by misusing of his Kind? But Women, only for being quaint, To signifie the Things they want By proper Names, must be reproach'd; For wanton, foolish, and debauch'd; Yet Learning is no Crime to Ladies, And Terms of Art are still where Trade is. Printers speak Gibb'rish at their Cafes; And Weavers talk in unknown Phrases; And Blacksmith's 'Prentice takes his Lessons From Arabick (to us) Expressions: Why then mayn't Ladies, in their Stations, Use novel Names for novel Fashions? And is not _Colbertine_, God save us, Much nearer far than _Wevus mavus_; A sort of Cant, with which the young Corrupted once their Mother Tongue: Is such a Bumpkin Cant as that