To

THE SAME.

A qualm of conscience brings me back again, To make amends to you bespattered men. We women love like cats, that hide their joys, By growling, squalling, and a hideous noise. I railed at wild young sparks; but, without lying, Never was man worse thought on for high-flying. The prodigal of love gives each her part, And, squandering, shows at least a noble heart. I've heard of men, who, in some lewd lampoon, Have hired a friend to make their valour known. That accusation straight this question brings,-- What is the man that does such naughty things? The spaniel lover, like a sneaking fop, Lies at our feet:--he's scarce worth taking up. 'Tis true, such heroes in a play go far; But chamber-practice is not like the bar. When men such vile, such faint petitions make, We fear to give, because they fear to take; Since modesty's the virtue of our kind, Pray let it be to our own sex confined. When men usurp it from the female nation, 'Tis but a work of supererogation. We shewed a princess in the play, 'tis true, Who gave her Cæsar more than all his due; Told her own faults; but I should much abhor To choose a husband for my confessor. You see what fate followed the saint-like fool, For telling tales from out the nuptial school. Our play a merry comedy had proved, Had she confessed so much to him she loved. True Presbyterian wives the means would try; But damned confessing is flat Popery.