Written in a Book

'Tis true—in these well-polish'd lines, The Author's noble genius shines: A happy wit, a thought well weigh'd, And in a charming dress convey'd, Adorn each curious page—'tis true: But what 's all this, fair Maid, to you? Have lovely faces need of paint? Are Manuals useful to a Saint? Let careless nymphs be ply'd with rules, Let wit be thrown among the fools: In both of these you boast a store, Compar'd with which, our Author's poor. Alas! as he directs his pen To Maids, should you advise the men; Should you your easy minutes vex, To make reprisals on the sex; We great pretenders then should find Ourselves, our darling selves, out-shin'd Not more in body than in mind: She-wit and sense would mount the throne, And our lov'd Salique law be gone.