Classic Poem

Though I'm a female, and the rule is ever,
For us, in Epilogue, to beg your favour,
Yet now I take the lead — and, leaving art
And envy to the men — with a warm heart,
A woman here I come — to take a woman's part.
No little jealousies my mind perplex,
I come, the friend and champion of my sex:
I'll prove, ye fair, that, let us have our swing,
We can, as well as men, do any thing;
Nay, better too, perhaps — for now and then,
These times produce some bungling among men.
In spite of lordly wits — with force and ease,
Can't we write plays, or crush 'em, if we please?
The men, who grant not much, allow us charms —
Are eyes, shapes, dimples, then, our only arms?
To rule this man, our sex dame Nature teaches;
Mount the high horse we can, and make long speeches.
Did not a lady knight, late chevalier,
A brave, smart soldier to your eyes appear?
Hey! presto! pass! his sword becomes a fan,
A comely woman rising from the man.
The French their amazonian maid invite —
She goes — alike well skill'd to talk or write,
Dance, ride, negotiate, scold, coquet, or fight.
If she should set her heart upon a rover,
And he prove false, she'd kick her faithless lover.
The Greeks and Romans own our boundless claim —
The Muses, Graces, Virtues, Fortune, Fame,
Wisdom and Nature too, they women call;
With this sweet flatt'ry, yet they mix some gull —
'Twill out — the Furies too are females all.
The pow'rs of Riches, Physic, War, and Wine,
Sleep, Death, and Devils too — are masculine.
Are we unfit to rule? — a poor suggestion!
Austria and Russia answer well that question.
If joy from sense and matchless grace arise,
With your own treasure, Britons, bless your eyes.
If such there are — sure, in an humbler way,
The sex, without much guilt, may write a play:
That they've done nobler things, there's no denial;
With all your judgment, then, prepare for trial —
Summon your critic pow'rs, your manhood summon,
A brave man will protect, not hurt, a woman;
Let us wish modestly to share with men,
If not the force, the feather of the pen.