And Sylvia, full of inward guilt, Calls Amoret an arrant jilt. Now voices over voices rise, While each to be the loudest vies: They contradict, affirm, dispute, No single tongue one moment mute; All mad to speak, and none to hearken, They set the very lap-dog barking; Their chattering makes a louder din Than fishwives o'er a cup of gin; Not schoolboys at a barring out Raised ever such incessant rout; The jumbling particles of matter In chaos made not such a clatter; Far less the rabble roar and rail, When drunk with sour election ale. Nor do they trust their tongues alone, But speak a language of their own; Can read a nod, a shrug, a look, Far better than a printed book; Convey a libel in a frown, And wink a reputation down; Or by the tossing of the fan, Describe the lady and the man. But see, the female club disbands, Each twenty visits on her hands. Now all alone poor madam sits In vapours and hysteric fits; "And was not Tom this morning sent? I'd lay my life he never went; Past six, and not a living soul! I might by this have won a vole." A dreadful interval of spleen! How shall we pass the time between? "Here, Betty, let me take my drops; And feel my pulse, I know it stops; This head of mine, lord, how it swims! And such a pain in all my limbs!" "Dear madam, try to take a nap"-- But now they hear a footman's rap: "Go, run, and light the ladies up: It must be one before we sup." The table, cards, and counters, set, And all the gamester ladies met, Her spleen and fits recover'd quite, Our madam can sit up all night; "Whoever comes, I'm not within." Quadrille's the word, and so begin. How can the Muse her aid impart, Unskill'd in all the terms of art? Or in harmonious numbers put The deal, the shuffle, and the cut? The superstitious whims relate, That fill a female gamester's pate? What agony of soul she feels To see a knave's inverted heels! She draws up card by card, to find Good fortune peeping from behind; With panting heart, and earnest eyes, In hope to see spadillo rise; In vain, alas! her hope is fed; She draws an ace, and sees it red; In ready counters never pays, But pawns her snuff-box, rings, and keys; Ever with some new fancy struck, Tries twenty charms to mend her luck. "This morning, when the parson came, I said I should not win a game. This odious chair, how came I stuck in't? I think I never had good luck in't. I'm so uneasy in my stays: Your fan, a moment, if you please. Stand farther, girl, or get you gone; I always lose when you look on." "Lord! madam, you have lost codille: I never saw you play so ill." "Nay, madam, give me leave to say, 'Twas you that threw the game away: When Lady Tricksey play'd a four, You took it with a matadore; I saw you touch your wedding ring Before my lady call'd a king; You spoke a word began with H, And I know whom you meant to teach, Because you held the king of hearts; Fie, madam, leave these little arts." "That's not so bad as one that rubs Her chair to call the king of clubs;