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And may compare to Ætna's fire,
Which, though with trembling, all admire;
The heat, that makes the fummit glow,
Enriching all the vales below.

Those who in warmer climes complain
From Phœbus' rays they fuffer pain,
Muft own, that pain is largely paid
By gen'rous wines beneath a fhade.
Yet, when I find your paffions rife,
And anger sparkling in your eyes,
I grieve those spirits fhould be spent,
For nobler ends by nature meant.
One paffion with a diff'rent turn
Makes wit inflame, or anger burn:
So the fun's heat with diff'rent pow'rs
Ripens the grape, the liquors fours:
Thus Ajax, when with rage poffeft
By Pallas breath'd into his breast,
His valour wou'd no more employ,
Which might alone have conquer'd Troy;
But blinded by refentment feeks
For vengeance on his friends the Greeks.
You think this turbulence of blood
From ftagnating preferves the flood,
Which thus fermenting by degrees
Exalts the spirits, finks the lees.

St ella

Stella, for once you reafon wrong;
For, fhou'd this ferment laft too long,
By time fubfiding, you may find
Nothing but acid left behind:

From paffion you may then be freed,
When peevishness and fpleen fucceed.
Say, Stella, when you copy next,
Will you keep ftrictly to the text?
Dare you let these reproaches ftand,
And to your failing fet

your hand?
Or, if thefe lines your anger fire,
Shall they in bafer flames expire?
Whene'er they burn, if burn they must,
They'll prove my accufation juft.

THE

JOURNAL

OF A

MODERN LAD Y.

Written in 1728.

T was a moft unfriendly part

ITT

In you, who ought to know my heart, So well acquainted with my zeal For all the female common-weal

How

How cou'd it come into your mind
To pitch on me, of all mankind,
Against the sex to write a fatire,
And brand me for a woman-hater ?
On me, who think them all fo fair,
They rival Venus to a hair;
Their virtues never ceas'd to fing,
Since firft I learn'd to tune a ftring?
Methinks, I hear the ladies cry,
Will he his character belye?
Muft never our misfortunes end?
And have we loft our only friend?
Ah, lovely nymphs, remove your fears,
No more let fall thofe precious tears.
Sooner fhall, etc.

[Here feveral verfes are omitted.]

The hound be hunted by the hare,
Than I turn rebel to the fair.

'Twas you engag'd me first to write,
Then gave the fubject out of spite:
The journal of a modern dame
Is by my promife what you claim.
My word is paft, I must submit;
And yet perhaps you may be bit.
I but transcribe; for not a line
Of all the 'fatire fhall be mine.

Compell'd by you to tag in rhymes
The common flanders of the times,
Of modern times, the guilt is yours,
And me my innocence fecures.
Unwilling mufe, begin thy lay,
The annals of a female day.

By nature turn'd to play the rake well,
(As we fhall fhew you in the fequel)
The modern dame is wak'd by noon,
(Some authors fay, not quite fo foon)
Because, though fore against her will,
She fat all night up at Quadrille.
She stretches, gapes, unglues her eyes,
And asks if it be time to rife;

Of head-ach and the spleen complains ;
And then to cool her heated brains,
Her night-gown and her flippers brought
hcr,

Takes a large dram of citron-water.
Then to her glafs; and "Betty, pray
"Don't I look frightfully to day?
"But was it not confounded hard?
Well, if I ever touch a card!
"Four mattadores, and lofe codill!
"Depend upon't, I never will.
"But run to Tom, and bid him fix
"The ladies here to night by fix."

Madam,

Madam, the goldfmith waits below:
He fays, his business is to know
If you'll redeem the filver cup

He keeps in pawn? --- "Why fhew him up.”.

Your dreffing-plate he'll be content
To take, for intereft cent. per cent.
And, madam, there's my lady Spade
Hath fent this letter by her maid.
"Well, I remember what fhe won;
"And hath fhe fent fo foon to dun?
"Here, carry down those ten pistoles
"My husband left to pay for coals:
"I thank my stars, they all are light;
"And I may have revenge to night."
Now, loit'ring o'er her tea and cream,
She enters on her ufual theme;
Her last night's ill fuccefs repeats,
Calls lady Spade a hundred cheats:
"She flipt fpadillo in her breast,
"Then thought to turn it to a jeft:
"There's Mrs. Cut and fhe combine,
"And to each other give the fign.
Through ev'ry game purfues her tale,
Like hunters o'er their ev'ning ale.

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Now to another scene give place: Enter the folks with filks and lace: Q4

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Freft

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