Classic Poem

Stay, gentle Child of Taste! who'er thou art,
Listen, for mercy's sake, and take our part;
See where the critics, poring o'er our book,
Threat with each motion, kill with every look,
Growl o'er the titlepage—‘What's here, Miss Flirt?
You'd better make a pudding—or a shirt;
Poetic Laurels ! there's a pretty puff!
Poor silly wenches, what a string of stuff!
Sure madness rages now with every woman,
And, when one favourite scheme has grown too common,
With matchless art she strikes some novel's plan,
To soothe her pride and tyrannise o'er man;
Tells an affected, sentimental story,
Or prates in senseless rhymes of Fame and Glory.
These modern Sapphos are conceited creatures,
They sport their thoughts as others do their features;
These but coquette it with a different part,
And seize the head, while other charm the heart.
'Twere best would each young woman mend her life,
And learn to be a decent, careful wife.’
 There goes my work—I'll find some fair pretence
To face the Board, and make my own defence:
‘May't please ye, reverend sirs, we own the crime,
So long to trespass on your precious time;
And since you seem to think domestic fetters
Become us better than the love of letters,
Assist us, dear messieurs—have you no friend,
Your sons, perhaps yourselves, to recommend?
Myself or sister, blest with such a mate,
Will quit ambition and the tuneful state;
Conform ourselves to be whate'er ye choose,
And cease to plague you with the jabbering Muse;
Nay, the last gleam of our poetic rays
Shall be an Ode in quarto to your praise.’