To a Lady

WHO DESIRED THE AUTHOR TO WRITE SOME VERSES UPON HER
IN THE HEROIC STYLE

After venting all my spite, Tell me, what have I to write? Every error I could find Through the mazes of your mind, Have my busy Muse employ'd, Till the company was cloy'd. Are you positive and fretful, Heedless, ignorant, forgetful? Those, and twenty follies more, I have often told before.

Hearken what my lady says: Have I nothing then to praise? Ill it fits you to be witty, Where a fault should move your pity. If you think me too conceited, Or to passion quickly heated; If my wandering head be less Set on reading than on dress; If I always seem too dull t'ye; I can solve the diffi--culty.

You would teach me to be wise: Truth and honour how to prize; How to shine in conversation, And with credit fill my station; How to relish notions high; How to live, and how to die.

But it was decreed by Fate-- Mr. Dean, you come too late. Well I know, you can discern, I am now too old to learn: Follies, from my youth instill'd, Have my soul entirely fill'd; In my head and heart they centre, Nor will let your lessons enter.

Bred a fondling and an heiress; Drest like any lady mayoress: Cocker'd by the servants round, Was too good to touch the ground; Thought the life of every lady Should be one continued play-day-- Balls, and masquerades, and shows, Visits, plays, and powder'd beaux.

Thus you have my case at large, And may now perform your charge. Those materials I have furnish'd, When by you refined and burnish'd, Must, that all the world may know 'em, Be reduced into a poem.

But, I beg, suspend a while That same paltry, burlesque style; Drop for once your constant rule, Turning all to ridicule; Teaching others how to ape you; Court nor parliament can 'scape you; Treat the public and your friends Both alike, while neither mends.

Sing my praise in strain sublime: Treat me not with dogg'rel rhyme. 'Tis but just, you should produce, With each fault, each fault's excuse; Not to publish every trifle, And my few perfections stifle. With some gifts at least endow me, Which my very foes allow me. Am I spiteful, proud, unjust? Did I ever break my trust? Which of all our modern dames Censures less, or less defames? In good manners am I faulty? Can you call me rude or haughty? Did I e'er my mite withhold From the impotent and old? When did ever I omit Due regard for men of wit? When have I esteem express'd For a coxcomb gaily dress'd? Do I, like the female tribe, Think it wit to fleer and gibe? Who with less designing ends Kindlier entertains her friends; With good words and countenance sprightly, Strives to treat them more politely?

Think not cards my chief diversion: 'Tis a wrong, unjust aspersion: Never knew I any good in 'em, But to dose my head like laudanum. We, by play, as men, by drinking, Pass our nights to drive out thinking. From my ailments give me leisure, I shall read and think