Classic Poem

Confess, good folks, has not Miss Rusport shown
Strange whims for seventeen hundred seventy-one?
What, pawn her jewels — there's a precious plan —
To extricate from want a brave old man!
And fall in love with poverty and honour —
A girl of fortune, fashion — fie upon her!
But do not think we females of the stage
So dead to the refinements of the age
That we agree with our old-fashioned poet;
I am point-blank against him and I'll show it.
And that my tongue may more politely run,
Make me a lady — Lady Blabington.
Now, with a rank and title to be free,
I'll make a catechism and you shall see
What is the veritable baume de vie .
As I change place I stand for that or this;
My Lady questions first, then answers Miss.
" Come, tell me, child, what were our modes and dress
In those strange times of that old fright Queen Bess? "
And now for Miss:
When Bess was England's queen ,
Ladies were dismal beings, seldom seen.
They rose betimes and breakfasted as soon
On beef and beer, then studied Greek till noon.
Unpainted cheeks with blush of health did glow.
Beruffed and farthingaled from top to toe,
Nor necks nor ankles would they ever show.

Learnt Greek! ( (Laughs) ) Our outside head takes half a day.
Have we much time to dress the inside, pray?
No heads dressed a la Grecque the ancients quote —
There may be learning in a papillote.
Cards are our classics, and I, Lady B.,
In learning will not yield to any she
Of the late-founded female university.
But now for Lady Blab:
" Tell me, Miss Nancy,
What sports and what employments did they fancy? "
The vulgar creatures seldom left their houses,
But taught their children, worked, and loved their spouses;
The use of cards at Christmas only knew —
They played for little, and their games were few:
One-and-thirty, put, all fours and lantera loo.
They bore a race of mortals stout and bony,
And never heard the name of macaroni.

" Oh brava, brava — that's my pretty dear!
Now let a modern, modish fair appear.
No more of these old dowdy maids and wives —
Tell how superior beings pass their lives. "
Till noon they sleep, from noon till night they dress,
From night till morn they game it more or less;
Next night the same sweet course of joy run o'er,
Then the night after as the night before,
And the night after that, encore, encore.

Thus with our cards we shuffle off all sorrow,
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.
We deal apace, from youth unto our prime,
To the last moment of our tabby-time;
And all our yesterdays, from rout and drum,
Have lighted fools with empty pockets home.
Thus do our lives with rapture roll away,
Not with the nonsense of our author's play.
This is true life, true spirit — give it praise,
Don't snarl and sigh for good Queen Bess's days.
For all you look so sour and bend the brow,
You all rejoice with me you're living now.