Classic Poem

But of all plagues, the greatest is untold,
The book-learned wife in Greek and Latin bold,
The critic-dame, who at her table sits,
Homer and Virgil quotes, and weights their wits;
And pities Dido's agonizing fits.
She has so far th'ascendant of the board,
The prating pedant puts not in one word,
The man of law is nonplussed, in his suit;
Nay every other female tongue is mute.
Hammers, and beating anvils, you would swear,
And Vulcan with his whole militia there.
Tabours and trumpets cease; for she alone
Is able to redeem the lab'ring moon.
Ev'n wit's a burthen, when it talks too long:
But she, who has no continence of tongue,
Should walk in breeches, and should wear a beard;
And mix among the philosophic herd.
O what a midnight curse has he, whose side
Is pestered with a mood and figure bride!
Let mine, ye Gods (if such must be my fate)
No logic learn, nor history translate;
But rather be a quiet, humble fool:
I hate a wife, to whom I go to school,
Who climbs the grammar-tree, distinctly knows
Where Noun, and Verb, and Participle grows,
Corrects her country neighbour; and, abed,
For breaking Priscian's, breaks her husband's head.
The gawdy gossip, when she's set agog,
In jewels dressed, and at each ear a bob,
Goes flaunting out, and, in her trim pride,
Think all she says or does, is justified.