And comes to town to let us moderns know,
How women lov'd two thousand years ago.
If that be all, faid I, even burn your play:
I'gad! we know all that, as well as they:
Show us the youthful, handfome charioteer,
Firm in his feat, and running his career;
Our fouls would kindle with as generous flames,
As e'er infpir'd the ancient Grecian Dames:
Every Ifmena would refign her breast;
And every dear Hippolitus be bleft.
But, as it is, fix flouncing Flanders mares
Are even as good, as any two of theirs:
And if Hippolitus can but contrive
To buy the gilded chariot: John can drive.
Now of the bustle you have seen to-day,
And Phædra's morals in this scholar's play,
Something at leaft in juftice fhould be faid:
But this Hippolitus fo fills one's head-
Well! Phædra liv'd as chaftly as she could;
For fhe was father Jove's own flesh and blood,
Her aukward love indeed was odly fated;
She and her Poly were too near related :
And yet that fcruple had been laid afide,
If honeft Thefeus had but fairly died;
But when he came, what needed he to know,
But that all matters ftood in $TATU QUO?
There was no harm, you fee, or grant there were:
She might want conduct; but he wanted care.
"Twas in a husband little less than rude,
Upon his wife's retirement to intrude-
He should have sent a night or two before,
That he would come exact at fuch an hour;
Then he had turn'd all tragedy to jeft;
Found every thing contribute to his reft;
The PICQUET-friend difmifs'd, the coaft all clear,
And spouse alone impatient for her dear.
But if these gay reflections come too late,
To keep the guilty Phædra from her fate;
If your more serious judgment must condemn
The dire effects of her unhappy flame:
Yet, ye
chafte matrons, and ye tender fair,
Let love and innocence engage your care:
My spotless flames to your protection take;
And spare poor Phædra for Ifmena's fake.
THE female author who recites to-day,
Trufts to her sex the merit of her play.
Like father Bayes fecurely fhe fits down
Pit, box, and gallery, gad! all's our own.
In ancient Greece, she says, when Sappho writ,
By their applaufe the critics fhow'd their wit,
They tun'd their voices to her Lyric ftring;
Though they could all do something more than fing,
But one exception to this fact we find;
That booby Phaon only was unkind,
An ill-bred boat-man, rough as waves and wind.
* This play was acted at Drury-lane, in 1717, with fuccefs. In the dedication to Sir Richard Steele, who wrote a prologue to it, the author apologizes for the severity of her former writings against him.
From Sappho down through all fucceeding ages,
And now on French, or on Italian stages,
Rough fatyrs, fly remarks, ill-natur'd fpeeches,
Are alway aim'd at poets that wear breeches.
Arm'd with Longinus, or with Rapin, no man
Drew a fharp pen upon a naked woman.
The bluftering bully in our neighbouring streets
Scorns to attack the female that he meets :
Fearless the petticoat contemns his frowns:
The hoop fecure whatever it furrounds.
The many-colour'd gentry there above,
By turns are rul'd by tumult, and by love:
And while their sweet-hearts their attention fix,
Sufpend the din of their damn'd clattering fticks.
Now, Sirs
To you our author makes her soft request.
Who speak the kindeft, and who write the best,
Your SYMPATHETIC hearts fhe hopes to move,
From tender friendship, and endearing love.
If Petrarch's Muse did Laura's wit rehearse;
And Cowley flatter'd dear Orinda's verfe;
She hopes from you-Pox take her hopes and fears:
I plead her fex's claim; what matters her's?
By our full power of beauty we think fit.
To damn the SALIQUE law impos'd on wit;
We'll try the empire you fo long have boasted;
And if we are not prais'd, we 'll not be toasted.
Approve what one of us prefents to-night;
Or every mortal woman here fhall write :
Rural, pathetic, narrative, fublime,
We'll write to you, and make you write in rhime;
Female remarks shall take up all your time.
Your time, poor fouls! we'll take your very money;
Female third days fhall come fo quick upon ye.
As long as we have eyes, or hands, or breath,
We'll look, or write, or talk you all to death.
Unless you yield for better and for worse :
Then the She-Pegafus fhall gain the course;
And the
grey mare will prove the better horse.
WHO has e'er been at Paris, must needs know
The fatal retreat of th' unfortunate brave:
Where honour and juftice moft odly contribute,
To eafe hero's pains by a halter and gibbet,
Derry down, down, hey derry down.
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