LXX. He was a Turk, the colour of mahogany; And Laura saw him, and at first was glad, Because the Turks so much admire philogyny,[bo] Although their usage of their wives is sad; 'Tis said they use no better than a dog any Poor woman, whom they purchase like a pad: They have a number, though they ne'er exhibit 'em, Four wives by law, and concubines "ad libitum." LXXI. They lock them up, and veil, and guard them daily, They scarcely can behold their male relations, So that their moments do not pass so gaily As is supposed the case with northern nations; Confinement, too, must make them look quite palely; And as the Turks abhor long conversations, Their days are either passed in doing nothing, Or bathing, nursing, making love, and clothing. LXXII. They cannot read, and so don't lisp in criticism; Nor write, and so they don't affect the Muse; Were never caught in epigram or witticism, Have no romances, sermons, plays, reviews,-- In Harams learning soon would make a pretty schism, But luckily these Beauties are no "Blues;" No bustling _Botherby_[229] have they to show 'em "That charming passage in the last new poem:" LXXIII. No solemn, antique gentleman of rhyme, Who having angled all his life for Fame, And getting but a nibble at a time, Still fussily keeps fishing on, the same Small "Triton of the minnows," the sublime Of Mediocrity, the furious tame, The Echo's echo, usher of the school Of female wits, boy bards--in short, a fool! LXXIV. A stalking oracle of awful phrase, The approving _"Good!"_ (by no means good in law) Humming like flies around the newest blaze, The bluest of bluebottles you e'er saw, Teasing with blame, excruciating with praise, Gorging the little fame he gets all raw,[bp] Translating tongues he knows not even by letter, And sweating plays so middling, bad were better. LXXV. One hates an author that's _all author_--fellows In foolscap uniforms turned up with ink, So very anxious, clever, fine, and jealous, One don't know what to say to them, or think, Unless to puff them with a pair of bellows; Of Coxcombry's worst coxcombs e'en the pink Are preferable to these shreds of paper, These unquenched snuffings of the midnight taper. LXXVI.