X

Thus the deluding Muse oft blinds me to her ways, And ev'n my very thoughts transfers And changes all to beauty and the praise Of that proud tyrant sex of hers. The rebel Muse, alas! takes part, But with my own rebellious heart, And you with fatal and immortal wit conspire To fan th'unhappy fire. Cruel unknown! what is it you intend? Ah! could you, could you hope a poet for your friend! Rather forgive what my first transport said: May all the blood, which shall by woman's scorn be shed, Lie upon you and on your children's head! For you (ah! did I think I e'er should live to see The fatal time when that could be!) Have even increased their pride and cruelty. Woman seems now above all vanity grown, Still boasting of her great unknown Platonic champions, gain'd without one female wile, Or the vast charges of a smile; Which 'tis a shame to see how much of late You've taught the covetous wretches to o'errate, And which they've now the consciences to weigh In the same balance with our tears, And with such scanty wages pay The bondage and the slavery of years. Let the vain sex dream on; the empire comes from us; And had they common generosity, They would not use us thus. Well--though you've raised her to this high degree, Ourselves are raised as well as she; And, spite of all that they or you can do, 'Tis pride and happiness enough to me, Still to be of the same exalted sex with you.