On Mrs. Walker's Poems, Particularly That on the Author

Blush, Wilmot, blush; a female muse, Without one guilty line, The tender theme of love pursues In softer strains than thine.

'Tis thine the passion to blaspheme, 'Tis her's with wit and ease (When a mere nothing is the theme) Beyond thyself to please.

Then be to her the prize decreed, Whose merit has prevail'd; For what male poet can succeed, If Rochester has fail'd?

Since Phoebus quite forgetful grows, And has not yet thought fit, In his high wisdom, to impose A salique law on wit;

Since of your rights he takes no care, Ye Priors, Popes, and Gays; 'Tis hard!—but let the women wear The breeches and the bays.