Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/406

394 The journal of a modern dame, Is, by my promise, what you claim. My word is past, I must submit; And yet perhaps you may be bit. I but transcribe; for not a line Of all the satire shall be mine. Compell'd by you to tag in rhymes The common slanders of the times, Of modern times, the guilt is yours, And me my innocence secures. Unwilling Muse, begin thy lay, The annals of a female day. By nature turn'd to play the rake well, (As we shall show you in the sequel) The modern dame is wak'd by noon, (Some authors say not quite so soon) Because, though sore against her will, She sat all night up at quadrille. She stretches, gapes, unglues her eyes, And asks, if it be time to rise; Of headach and the spleen complains; And then, to cool her heated brains, Her nightgown and her slippers brought her, Takes a large dram of citron water. Then to her glass; and, "Betty, pray Don't I look frightfully today? But was it not confounded hard? Well, if I ever touch a card! Four matadores, and lose codille! Depend upon't, I never will. But run to Tom, and bid him fix The ladies here to night by six." "Madam, the goldsmith waits below; He says, his business is to know " If