Classic Poem

Observe that foot, how nice the shoe it fits,
Her waist how slender, how her gown it sits,
How bold she walks, what fierceness in her air,
And how the croud submissively do stare,
And hail her goddess of the beaut'ous throng
But cease good folks, your high opinion's wrong.
First at her toilette Kitty spends the morn,
To curl and patch, and face & neck adorn;
She studies fashions with religious care,
And scoffs religion with a scornful air,
Thinks that the ways to heaven are laid with gauze,
And that religion has no modern laws:
When full equipt she rambles through the town,
Or with her aunt some character runs down,
Or with an air important through the shops,
She cheapens fans and talks with ruffled fops:
The young apprentice knows her tricks full well,
For tossing goods without the hopes to sell
And spruce young milliners do often curse
Her wanton taste and coin-unsulli'd purse:
Sweethearts by dozens in her train appears,
Altho' the nymph is falling into years;
They come like seasons and like seasons go,
This one forgets her, that one answers no :
And all despise and seek some happier dame,
Less fond of dress and more unknown to fame,
The babbling slut will loudly whisper round
That maids of stricter virtue can be found.