A   SET of phrases learned by rote;

      A passion for a scarlet coat;

      When at a play, to laugh or cry,

      Yet cannot tell the reason why;

      Never to hold her tongue a minute,

      While all she prates has nothing in it;

      Whole hours can with a coxcomb sit,

      And take his nonsense all for wit.

      Her learning mounts to read a song,

      But half the words pronouncing wrong;

      Has every repartee in store

      She spoke ten thousand times before;

      Can ready compliments supply

      On all occasions, cut and dry;

      Such hatred to a parson’s gown,

      The sight would put her in a swoon;

      For conversation well endued,

      She calls it witty to be rude;

      And, placing raillery in railing,

      Will tell aloud your greatest failing;

      Nor make a scruple to expose

      Your bandy leg or crooked nose;

      Can at her morning tea run o’er

      The scandal of the day before;

      Improving hourly in her skill,

      To cheat and wrangle at quadrille.

      In choosing lace, a critic nice,

      Knows to a groat the lowest price;

      Can in her female clubs dispute

      What linen best the silk will suit,

      What colours each complexion match,

      And where with art to place a patch.

      If chance a mouse creeps in her sight,

      Can finely counterfeit a fright;

      So sweetly screams, if it comes near her,

      She ravishes all hearts to hear her.

      Can dexterously her husband tease,

      By taking fits whene’er she please;

      By frequent practice learns the trick

      At proper seasons to be sick;

      Thinks nothing gives one airs so pretty,

      At once creating love and pity.

      If Molly happens to be careless,

      And but neglects to warm her hair-lace,

      She gets a cold as sure as death,

      And vows she scarce can fetch her breath;

      Admires how modest woman can

      Be so robustious, like a man.

      In party, furious to her power,

      A bitter Whig, or Tory sour,

      Her arguments directly tend

      Against the side she would defend;

      Will prove herself a Tory plain,

      From principles the Whigs maintain,

      And, to defend the Whiggish cause,

      Her topics from the Tories draws.

      BEGIN. Who first the catalogue shall grace?

      To quality belongs the highest place.

      My lord comes forward; forward let him come!

      Ye vulgar! at your peril, give him room:

      He stands for fame on his forefathers’ feet,

      By heraldry proved valiant or discreet.

      With what a decent pride he throws his eyes

      Above the man by three descents less wise!

      If virtues at his noble hands you crave,

      You bid him raise his fathers from the grave.

      Men should press forward in fame’s glorious chase;

      Nobles look backward, and so lose the race.

      Let high birth triumph! What can be more great?

      Nothing – but merit in a low estate.

      To virtue’s humblest son let none prefer

      Vice, though descended from the Conqueror.

      Shall men, like figures, pass for high or base,

      Slight or important, only by their place?

      Titles are marks of honest men, and wise;

      The fool or knave, that wears a title, lies.

      On buying books Lorenzo long was bent,

      But found, at length, that it reduced his rent;

      His farms were flown; when, lo! a sale comes on,

      A choice collection – what is to be done?

      He sells his last, for he the whole will buy;

      Sells even his house – nay, wants whereon to lie

      So high the generous ardor of the man

      For Romans, Greeks, and Orientals ran.

      When terms were drawn, and brought him by the clerk,

      Lorenzo signed the bargain – with his mark.

      Unlearned men of books assume the care,

      As eunuchs are the guardians of the fair.

      The booby father craves a booby son,

      And by Heaven’s blessing thinks himself undone.

      These subtle wights (so blind are mortal men,

      Though satire couch them with her keenest pen)

      Forever will hang out a solemn face,

      To put off nonsense with a better grace:

      As perlers with some hero’s head make bold —

      Illustrious mark! – where pins are to be sold.

      What’s the bent brow, or neck in thought reclined?

      The body’s wisdom to conceal the mind.

      A man of sense can artifice disdain,

      As men of wealth may venture to go plain;

      And be this truth eternal ne’er forgot,

      Solemnity’s a cover for a sot.

      I find the fool, when I behold the screen;

      For ’tis the wise man’s interest to be seen.

      And what so foolish as the chance of fame?

      How vain the prize! how impotent our aim!

      For what are men who grasp at praise sublime,

      But bubbles on the rapid stream of time,

      That rise and fall, that swell, and are no more,

      Born, and forgot, ten thousand in an hour?

      Thus all will judge, and with one single aim,

      To gain themselves, not give the writer fame.

      The