And tears, and thread, and balls, and thimbles mix. Sappho, 'tis true, long vers'd in epic song, For years esteem'd all household studies wrong; When, dire mishap, though neither shame nor sin, Sappho herself, and not her muse, lies in. The virgin Nine in terror fly the bower, And matron Juno claims despotic power; Soon Gothic hags the classic pile o'erturn, A caudle-cup supplants the sacred urn; Nor books, nor implements escape their rage, They spike the ink-stand, and they rend the page; Poems and plays one barbarous fate partake, Ovid and Plautus suffer at the stake, And Aristotle's only sav'd--to wrap plum-cake. Yet, shall a woman tempt the tragic scene? And dare--but hold--I must repress my spleen; I see your hearts are pledg'd to her applause, While Shakspeare's spirit seems to aid her cause; Well pleas'd to aid--since o'er his sacred bier A female hand did ample trophies rear, And gave the greenest laurel that is worshipp'd there.