MISS A of Third-street. The wanton Vixen

To you, Apollo, patron of the nine, The judge of beauty and the arts divine, I humbly come and beg with suppliant mein, That you to me the beaut'ous prize will deign: My father's English and my mother's Dutch, My grandsire's Spanish and my grandame's Scotch, My noble lineage, were it nothing more, Demands the prize which wanton Venus bore: My elder sisters copy after me, My dress is modish, light and large you see; My cheeks by nature are a little faint, But that defect is well suppli'd with paint— An empty puppy ask'd me for his wife, And said he'd make me lady during life— But only hear!—when I began to broach For maids and lackeys and a gilded coach, He hasty 'rose and in a passion said, I must conclude he was a fool indeed; But for the same I serv'd him as I ought, I scorn'd with coldness when my hand he sought— Now bright Apollo give the prize to me, My looks are aided well by art you see; Let those who cannot cultivate their charms Die for the joys of some old lover's arms; Make me the Queen of all the beauteous throng, And paint eternal still shall keep me young.

The judge disgusted ey'd her from the throne, And by his looks her just decree was known: She stole away before her sentence came, And left her place for some deserving dame.