Classic Poem

“What is she[?”]—Aye, there's the important question,
Which ask'd too late, oft proves of hard digestion:
And he who stays till past the Honey Moon
May find he asks too late—and knows too soon[.]
But precept often fails without example,
So, with your leave, I'll give a little sample[.]
Squire Fiscky, a Rake of old renown,
By years admonish'd, and quite prudent grown,
Resolves, for virtue's sake, to take a wife:
But ah! far from the Scenes of modern life,
He seeks some Miss, whom man with terror seizes,
Who hangs her head, and “does as Papa pleases.”
Charm'd with simplicity beyond his hopes,
He weds, and what she is, he finds—when she elopes.
Sir Tinsel Dash loves elegance and spirit,
And shew and beauty thinks the only merit;
So weds a toast, whom half mankind adore.
But gain'd a husband—the gay Farce is o'er,
And she, of taste & beauty late the pattern,
Becomes a misshap'd dowdy, and a slattern.
Not so Lord Dove—he's for a quiet life,
And long he fears to risk domestic strife,
Till lur'd by gentle Julia's placid tone,
Who, ne'er to wield the female weapon's known,
In whom the silent graces seem to centre—
His dear[-]lov'd ease the Peer resolves to venture.
The vow pronounc'd—Ma'am's ministry begins[.]
Behold the Ins all Outs, the Outs all Ins!
All's put to rout—Dogs, Servants, horses new—
My Lord, I can't endure your formal crew!
In fine, ere yet the wedding feast is cold
The gentle Julia proves a very scold.
But while I thus teach caution from our Play,
What, prays our Authoress, the Ladys say[.]
Ah! here like Hotspur's Kate I prudent grow,
And will not tell you what I do not know[.]
Thus much she bids me say—that, Beauty's friend,
She only paints its follies—to amend:
That, while to Warn—her fancy Zephyrine drew
She copy'd her Eugenia from you:
And if the justice of the sketch you own,
By your support the likeness will be shewn:
Exert your influence in her heroine's cause,
And what she is, is fix'd by your applause[.]