Classic Poem

How I succeed, you kindly ask,
Yet set me on a grievous task,
When you oblige me to rehearse
The censures passed upon my verse.

Though I with pleasure may relate
That many, truly good and great,
With candid eye my lines survey,
And smile upon the artless lay;
To those with grateful heart I bend—
But your commands I must attend.

Servilla cries, ‘I hate a wit;
Women should to their fate submit,
Should in the needle take delight;
'Tis out of character to write:
She may succeed among the men;
They tell me Swift subscribes for ten,
And some say Dorset does the same;
But she shall never have my name.
Her poetry has cost me dear;
When Lady Carteret was here,
The widow Gordon got my guinea;
For which I own myself a ninny.’

Olivia loses oft at play,
So will not throw her gold away.

Thus Sylvia, of the haughty tribe:
‘She never asked me to subscribe,
Nor ever wrote a line on me,
I was no theme for poetry!
She rightly judged; I have no taste—
For women's poetry, at least.’

Then Flavia made this sage reply
(And looked with self-sufficient eye):
‘I often said, and say again,
Verses are only writ by men:
I know a woman cannot write;
I do not say this out of spite,
Nor shall be thought, by those who know me,
To envy one so much below me.’

Sabina, famed in wisdom's school,
Allows I write—but am a fool:
‘What!—must our sons be formed by rhyme?
A fine way to employ one's time!’

Albino has no gold to waste,
Far gone in the Italian taste:
He vows he must subscribe this year
To keep dear Carestini here;
Not from a narrow party view,
He dotes on Senesino too;
By turns their interest he'll espouse;
He's for the public good, he vows;
A generous ardour fires his breast;
Hail, Britain, in such patriots blest!

Says Belvidera, ‘Since a wit,
Or friend or foe, alike will hit,
Deliver me from wits, I say!
Grant heaven they ne'er may cross my way!
Besides, I oft have heard it hinted
Her poems never will be printed:
Her sickness is a feint, no doubt,
To keep her book from coming out.’
‘Of wit,’ says Celia, ‘I'll acquit her’,
Then archly fell into a titter.

‘A female bard!’ Pulvillio cries;
‘'Tis possible she may be wise;
But I could never find it yet,
Though oft in company we met:
She talks just in the common way;
Sure wits their talents should display:
Their language surely should be bright,
Before they should pretend to write:
I'll ne'er subscribe for books,’ says he;
‘'Fore Gad, it looks like pedantry.’

High-born Belinda loves to blame;
On criticism founds her fame:
Whene'er she thinks a fault she spies,
How pleasure sparkles in her eyes!
‘Call it not poetry,’ she says:
‘No—call it rhyming, if you please:
Her numbers might adorn a ring,
Or serve along the streets to sing:
‘Stella and Flavia’ 's well enough;
What else I saw was stupid stuff;
Nor love nor satire in the lays,
Insipid! neither pain nor please;
I promised once to patronise her,
But on reflection I was wiser:
Yet I subscribed among the rest;
I love to carry on a jest.’
Belinda thus her anger shows,
Nor tells the world from whence it flows:
With more success to wound my lays,
She gilds the dart with others' praise:
To her own breast I leave the fair,
Convinced I stand acquitted there.

Amanda, your commands, you see,
Though grievous, are obeyed by me.
What my friends told me had been said,
Just as it came into my head,
No matter for the place or time,
To show your power I tag with rhyme.