Classic Poem

What strange old maggots fill an author's pate!
A female court of justice—rare conceit!
Ladies, I give you joy of your new stations.
I think you've had a trial—of your patience.
What, five long acts, and not one pleasant sally,
But grave Sir Anthony's attempt to rally—
No sprightly rendezvous, no pretty fellows,
No wife intriguing, nor no husband jealous!
If to such innovations you submit,
And swallow tame morality for wit,
If such dull rules you let a woman teach,
Her next attempt, perhaps, will be to preach.
I told her, for it vexed me to the heart—
Madam, excuse me, I don't like my part;
'Tis out of nature, never drawn from life.
Who ever heard of such a passive wife?
To bear so much—'tis not in flesh and blood—
Such females might have lived before the flood.
But now the character will seem so flat—
Give me threats, tears, hysterics and all that—
If this don't work upon my lord, I hope
You'll so contrive the plot I may elope.
Take my advice, I think I know the town,
Without such aids your piece will scarce go down.
Hold, friend, she cried—I think I've hit the way
To reconcile both sexes to the play;
For, while the prologue bids our own be sovereign,
The scenes instruct the other how to govern.
A harmless plot—with credit to dismiss
The piece—you know the ladies never hiss.
And though they should condemn it, yet the men sure
Will leave a woman's faults to women's censure.
They, prone to meekness, charity and love,
Are always silent where they can't approve.
But if at loud applause we dare to aim,
It is the men must ratify our claim.