The Power of the Fair—A Familiar Epistle

You will wonder, my friend, and you'll think me too long, For complaining and grumbling's the chief of mysong: But woman, dear woman, man's sweet pretty play thing, That haughty, that humble, that gloomy, that gay thing, O'er me, sorceress-like, waves her magical wand, And compels me to yield to her stubborn command. I who ne'er by a spouse meek obedience was taught, I who ne'er in the rat-trap of wedlock was caught, Ne'er swallow'd that strong dram of comfort, a Wife, Which warms us at first, but soon preys upon life, Am teaz'd and tormented with female caprice, An old maiden sister, and young maiden niece. The headstrong young minx put me quite in a passion, She's just like a mule, or a lady of fashion; She has got such ridiculous whims in her head, I wish from my heart she was married, or—dead. And yet the young toad's not so bad as the old one; When I talk of our home, she does nothing but scold one. In vain I declare that her niece will be spoil'd here, Her whiteness, she says, will not even be soil'd here. My sister is one of the tribe of Match-Makers; The old maids in general are rather match-breakers. She makes it her business, and strives against fate, In looking about for an husband for Kate. Now she's scheming, contriving to catch a rich man, But I'll lay two to one she's marr'd in her plan. Perhaps you will laugh at my weakness, and wonder, That I to a woman will deign to knock under: But look round the world, and you'll soon find that no man Is freed from the rod of tyrannical woman.