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 THE STUBBORN DAME.

was a little stubborn dame Whom no authority could tame, Restive by long indulgence grown, 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 try'd, And sharper remedies apply'd; But both were vain, for every coures 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