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No will she minded but her own:

At trifles oft she'd scold and fret,

Then in a corner take a seat,

And, sourly moping all the day,

Disdain alike to work or play.

Papa all softer arts had tried,

And sharper remedies applied;

But both were vain; for ev'ry course

He took, still made her worse and worse.

'Tis strange to think how female wit

So oft should make a lucky hit;

When man with all his high pretence

To deeper judgment, sounder sense,

Will err, and measures false pursue—

'Tis very strange, I own, but true—

Mamma observed the rising lass,

By stealth retiring to the glass,

To practise little airs unseen,

In the true genius of thirteen.

On this a deep design she laid

To tame the humour of the Maid;

Contriving like a prudent Mother,

To make one folly cure another.

Upon the wall, against the seat

Which Jessy used for her retreat,

Whene'er by accident offended,

A Looking-Glass was straight suspended,

That it might show her how deformed,

She looked, and frightful when she stormed;