Classic Poem

While ambling wits in courtly phrase
Bedeck poor Woman with vain praise,
Without variety prolong
Their aye-encomiastic song,
While they the sex at once exalt
To perfect creatures, all sans fault,
And bid their perfumed flatteries rise
Till choaked by fumes, poor Reason dies,
Dear Will! let you and I explore
That surly page of ancient lore
In which the blunt Naumachian lay
Holds every error up to day;
Nor spares one vice, though every grace
Adorns its fair possessor's face.
And some like-honest bard (but who
I cannot swear or say I know)
Sings, " Woman is most like the Moon; "
And though I wish not to lampoon
The fairest part of the creation,
Much though I hate all defamation,
Dear Will, in justice I must own
That some resemblance may be shown.
I whisper this when I survey
The fashionables of the day,
Whom modes and varied whims have led,
In that rank hot-house, custom, bred.

And to begin....We know her light
The Moon ne'er gives but in the night,
And that her ladyship doth cover
Her face up when the night is over;
So modern Madams ne'er display
Their beauties to the eye of day,
But sleep till, laid in Thetis' lap,
Dan Phaebus takes his wonted nap:
When Night puts on her sable clout,
Forth rush the dames to ball or rout,
To put reports in circulation,
Or way-lay a friend's reputation,
To give a pointed zest to slander,
And kill with ill-affected candour.

Again....'Tis seldom that we see
The Sun and Moon in company;
Yet, if the Moon stays out 'till morn,
She meets the Sun at her return,
Vouchsafes a nod, with " how d'ye do?
Good b'ye, my dear! adieu! adieu! "
And when his godship in the sea
His whiskers dips, her jubilee
Is just to flirt it for an hour
In her Endymion's private bower.
If truth is truth, and must come out,
I think, friend Will, there's little doubt
That in this point court-wives outvie
Their prototype in knavery;
For who the court-wife can discover
That is contented by one lover?
Or who can show the modish couple
Of which the weaker branch will scruple
To drug with opium spousey's posset,
Lest he should hear her swain i'the' closet?

Then....'tis poetically known,
That the Moon's rays are not her own,
And should the Sun refuse to furnish
Her periwig (the beams that garnish
Her ladyship's celestial pate),
Darkness must be her certain fate;
Thus too it is whenever strife
Arises in the marriage life;
For should the husband then think proper
In Madam's gay career to stop her,
Let him but for awhile deny
The sources of her finery,
And instantly a dark eclipse
The dame of all her splendour strips.

When spleen or sullenness in clouds
The smiles and rosy dimples shrouds,
'Tis just as when thick burs bedim
The Moon, or halos round her swim;
And Woman's dark 'till better humour,
'Till smiles and cheerfulness relume her.

The Moon, unless she is belied,
Possesses some small share of pride;
'Tis said that she has no aversion
From worshipping her own sweet person,
So takes some horse-pond as a glass,
Narcissus-like, to view her face.
And fashionable nymphs, we see,
Are not less prone to vanity,
And seek to place the Loves and Graces
Not in their minds but in their faces,
Supposing, there can be no doubt,
Men judge the inside by the out;
Or that they think there is connexion
Between the heart and the complexion.
If not, how is't that ladies pass
So many hours before the glass,
With paint and patches make alliance,
And set plain Nature at defiance?

And if the Moon delights to shine
More bright for Master Maskelyne,
Or if, when Herschel upward slopes
His wonder-working telescopes,
To mark a freckle on her face,
Or search where small-pox leaves a trace,
When Shroeter's vulgar calculation
Would ascertain her perspiration,
She bids the clouds o'the' sudden whisk
Their shadowy veils before her disk;
Our modern belles are seen just so,
By pocket-telescope of beau;
Alike they court the' applauding eye,
Or shun severer scrutiny.

'T has long been thought the Moon maintains
Dominion over madmen's brains,
And, as she's in the humour, cleanses
Or fouls the cistern of their senses:
So 'tis that Woman sometimes can
Or fool or madman make of man,
Rouze him to deeds of desperation,
Or throw cold water on his passion.

Who is so blind as not to see
And note the Moon's inconstancy?
Who, in like manner, cannot find
The fickleness of Woman's mind?

The Moon and that brisk hunting dame
Are one, and wear one common name;
And every wight that's dubbed a poet,
From Homer to 'squire Penn must know it:
And surely our comparison
In this point may run glibly on,
For who in Dian does not see
Thy pattern, buxom S....l....sb....ry,
Whose prowess rails and gates o'ercomes,
As well as whippers-in and grooms.

If 'tis not false what poets sing
That Luna drives along her ring
With four in hand, we need but add
The name of gallant Lady L....de,
Who, as she deftly cracks her thong,
And dashes though the gaping throng,
May help our lagging strain along;
Nor need we sing the Lady's skill
The kidneys of her steeds to thrill,
And whistle on them, when she pleases,
The comforts of a diuresis.

But in one point we must demonstrate,
Our simile does not go on straight;
For 'tis well known the Moon adorns
No husband's forehead with her horns;
Then gentle Master Charles declare
Why you the burthen choose to bear,
Why on thy unsuspecting pate
Did Lady M.......y lay that weight?
Is't that in Dian's horns we see
An emblem of her chastity?
Is't that thy thus far modest spouse
Transferred that symbol to thy brows,
Thinking it better thou shouldst bear it,
Since she has lost her right to wear it?