In days of yore liv'd doughty Knights

In days of yore liv'd doughty Knights, Enchanters, 'Squires, and valiant Wights— Scamp'ring o'er mountains, seas, and land, Prompt at their haughty Fair's command. Castles were raz'd, and Giants kill'd, Volcanos sunk, or Rivers fill'd: No Ravisher dar'd stalk the earth; No faithless Lover turn'd to mirth The oaths his fondness once had swore— Is he inconstant?—He's no more. Rare times were these! yet some there were Who even then against the Fair, Fearless of Conj'rer, 'Squire, or Knight, Could shew their teeth, and vent their spight. These were your Learned Men—your Writers, Whom no age ever mark'd for Fighters; But war with Women they could wage, And fill their bold, satyric page With petty foibles—Ladies faults— Who still endure their rude assaults; For even now it is the way, In this our polish'd modern day, On Female Follies to be witty, From the Court Beauty to the City. Those who can't rhyme, in weighty Prose Their whims and vanity expose: In Epigrams Sir Witling's folio Makes of the sex a perfect olio— Of noise, caprice, and pride, compos'd, To ev'ry thing outré dispos'd— Whilst Cards, and Dress, and studied Airs, More than good Housewifery, or Prayers, Engross their time, their hearts, their cares.

Thus have they borne, from distant ages, The lash of Wit, the frown of Sages.— Sure then 'tis fair one hour to give— 'Tis all she asks—a Woman leave To laugh at those same learned Men! The gall of whose sarcastic pen By Youth, and Beauty, is supply'd, Nor spares the Matron, Maid, nor Bride.

If any from the musty Halls, Or the chill gloom of College-walls, To bask in Pleasure's tempting ray, Have Phaëton-like obtain'd a day, And, thron'd in yonder circle, sit, Deciding on the claims of Wit— Think not that you, our Author means, When thro' her saucy Farcic scenes, A Pedant she has dar'd to scan From Alma Mater—spick and span. No; in her name she bids me swear You are chief fav'rites of the Fair— You've blood and spirits in your veins, And give—ge-heup—to joy the reins; Skim Life's sweet surface, and pursue The flying blessings, still in view— For Pleasure ever on the beat, And roasted SQUARE CAPS—think a treat.