Kitty, the Toast

Your ancient bards, like rustic swains, Attun'd their harps to worthless strains, Well suiting rural grots and plains And artless lovers fires: Of modest nymphs, disdaining art, Whose simple sweetness charms the heart, The blush that edges Cupid's dart, And faithful love inspires.

Of virgins like the Cyprian Queen, With sweet porportion, air and mein, Where simple dignity is seen, In manners and in dress: Of Queens and Nymphs divinely fair, Who garbs of their own weaving wear, Nor blush to tend their fleecy care, Despising idleness.

To Dorcas, type of modern race, Ye ancient queens and nymphs give place; With her ye bards your lyrics grace, Your melting strains give o'er! In present times, refin'd in arts, My fair excels in winning hearts, No mortal wounds attend her darts, None languish as of yore?

She's boist'rous in her air and mien, On her no rising blush is seen, Her colour fixt like Gallia's queen, With art before the glass; In martial confidence of face, Vivacity attends grimace;— There modest nature finds no place, And masculine her dress.

If dress more feminine she'd wear, Her artificial folds of hair, Majestic, huge beyond compare, What fancy could detail! My trembling muse then shuns the weight Her wond'rous head, to delineate— Her barbar better can relate The interesting tale.

Love's globes fictitious, neatly plac'd; With cork well form'd in newest taste, Her hips are formidably graced, And of the amplest size: Large hoops her petticoats adorn; Her dress from either India borne, Domestic fabrics are her scorn, And plainness shocks her eyes!

As moves the elephant to war, Thus widely spreads my Dorcas fair, All symmetry display'd with care, To charm the gazing swains! When stately thus she heaves in sight, Pale, dastard Cupid, in affright, With Cytherea, wing their flight To rural grots and plains.