Classic Poem

A QUALM of conscience brings me back again,
To make amends to you bespatter'd men.
We women love like cats, that hide their joys
By growling, squalling, and a hideous noise.
I rail'd 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 hir'd 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 confin'd:
When men usurp it from the female nation,
'Tis but a work of supererogation—
We show'd 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 follow'd the saint-like fool
For telling tales from out the nuptial-school.
Our play a merry comedy had prov'd,
Had she confess'd so much to him she lov'd.
True Presbyterian wives the means would try,
But damn'd confessing is flat Popery.