Classic Poem

spoken by Miss Pope

(Enter, as Polly, laughing) Ha, ha, ha!
My poor papa's in woeful agitation,
While I, the cause, feel here (striking her bosom) no palpitation.
We girls of reading and superior notions,
Who from the fountainhead drink love's sweet potions,
Pity our parents when such passion blinds 'em;
One hears the good folks rave — one never minds 'em.
Till these dear books infused their soft ingredients,
Ashamed and fearful, I was all obedience.
Then my good father did not storm in vain —
I blushed and cried " I'll ne'er do so again. "
But now no bugbears can my spirit tame,
I've conquered fear, and almost conquered shame;
So much these dear instructors change and win us,
Without their light we ne'er should know what's in us.
Here we at once supply our childish wants —
Novels are hotbeds for your forward plants.
Not only sentiments refine the soul,
But hence we learn to be the smart and droll:
Each awkward circumstance for laughter serves,
From nurse's nonsense to my mother's nerves.

Though parents tell us that our genius lies
In mending linen and in making pies,
I set such formal precepts at defiance
That preach up prudence, neatness, and compliance,
Leap these old bounds, and boldly set the pattern
To be a wit, philosopher, and slattern.

O did all maids and wives my spirit feel,
We'd make this topsy-turvy world to reel!
Let us to arms — our fathers, husbands, dare!
Novels will teach us all the art of war.
Our tongues will serve for trumpet and for drum.
I'll be your leader — General Honeycombe!

Too long has human nature gone astray.
Daughters should govern, parents should obey.
Man should submit the moment that he weds,
And hearts of oak should yield to wiser heads.
I see you smile, bold Britons, but 'tis true:
Beat you the French — but let your wives beat you.