Dear madam, you are grown so hard-- This lace is worth twelve pounds a-yard: Madam, if there be truth in man, I never sold so cheap a fan." This business of importance o'er, And madam almost dress'd by four; The footman, in his usual phrase, Comes up with, "Madam, dinner stays." She answers, in her usual style, "The cook must keep it back a while; I never can have time to dress, No woman breathing takes up less; I'm hurried so, it makes me sick; I wish the dinner at Old Nick." At table now she acts her part, Has all the dinner cant by heart: "I thought we were to dine alone, My dear; for sure, if I had known This company would come to-day-- But really 'tis my spouse's way! He's so unkind, he never sends To tell when he invites his friends: I wish ye may but have enough!" And while with all this paltry stuff She sits tormenting every guest, Nor gives her tongue one moment's rest, In phrases batter'd, stale, and trite, Which modern ladies call polite; You see the booby husband sit In admiration at her wit! But let me now a while survey Our madam o'er her evening tea; Surrounded with her noisy clans Of prudes, coquettes, and harridans, When, frighted at the clamorous crew, Away the God of Silence flew, And fair Discretion left the place, And modesty with blushing face; Now enters overweening Pride, And Scandal, ever gaping wide, Hypocrisy with frown severe, Scurrility with gibing air; Rude laughter seeming like to burst, And Malice always judging worst; And Vanity with pocket glass, And Impudence with front of brass; And studied Affectation came, Each limb and feature out of frame; While Ignorance, with brain of lead, Flew hovering o'er each female head. Why should I ask of thee, my Muse, A hundred tongues, as poets use, When, to give every dame her due, A hundred thousand were too few? Or how should I, alas! relate The sum of all their senseless prate, Their innuendoes, hints, and slanders, Their meanings lewd, and double entendres? Now comes the general scandal charge; What some invent, the rest enlarge; And, "Madam, if it be a lie, You have the tale as cheap as I; I must conceal my author's name: But now 'tis known to common fame." Say, foolish females, bold and blind, Say, by what fatal turn of mind, Are you on vices most severe, Wherein yourselves have greatest share? Thus every fool herself deludes; The prude condemns the absent prudes: Mopsa, who stinks her spouse to death, Accuses Chloe's tainted breath; Hircina, rank with sweat, presumes To censure Phyllis for perfumes; While crooked Cynthia, sneering, says, That Florimel wears iron stays; Chloe, of every coxcomb jealous, Admires how girls can talk with fellows; And, full of indignation, frets, That women should be such coquettes: Iris, for scandal most notorious, Cries, "Lord, the world is so censorious!" And Rufa, with her combs of lead, Whispers that Sappho's hair is red: Aura, whose tongue you hear a mile hence, Talks half a day in praise of silence;