MISS S Y B N Or Beauty without paint

Great judge of music, poetry and wit, That in this court of beauty now does sit, I come to claim the prize I wanted long— I'm neither wife nor widow—but am young, And have a husband—tho' without the game— The wicked wags have sported with my fame: I know each art and put on paint with skill, And know the way a fickle heart to kill; Leering and ogling is my greatest forte, And now and then a bit of sensual sport— Soft bleeding hearts are strew'd arround my feet, My praise reverberates through ev'ry street; Kind swains by dozens dangle at my arm, And breath their vows with protestations warm; My charms are known to all the bucks in town, And were they kings they'd yield to me thei crown— I like to teaze—to break their hearts wit love, Their hasty sayings and their truth to prove So fond they seem I doubt if they'r sincere But 'tis the modern language to the fair— Now great Apollo grant to me the prize, I claim it by the lusture of my eyes— My shape & dress proclaim me just the thing, Grant my petition and i'll own thee king.

Apollo smil'd to hear her vainly boast The acts that blast the world of beauty most And said indignant, for her forward mein, That she should hide where female beauty's seen; Her eyes were bright-tho' bright but for a day, And were at best but highly varnished clay: S—heard her sentence, smirk'd away with ease, Intent to study further arts to teaze.