Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/408

 The footman, in his usual phrase, Comes up with, "Madam, dinner stays." She answers, in her usual style, "The cook must keep it back a while: I never can have time to dress, No woman breathing takes up less; I'm hurried so, it makes me sick; I wish the dinner at Old Nick." At table now she acts her part, Has all the dinner cant by heart: "I thought we were to dine alone, My dear; for sure, if I had known This company would come to day — But really 'tis my spouse's way! He's so unkind, he never sends To tell when he invites his friends: I wish ye may but have enough!" And while with all this paltry stuff She sits tormenting every guest, Nor gives her tongue one moment's rest, In phrases batter'd, stale, and trite, Which modern ladies call polite; You see the booby husband sit In admiration at her wit! But let me now a while survey Our madam o'er her evening tea; Surrounded with her noisy clans Of prudes, coquets, and harridans; When, frighted at the clamorous crew, Away the God of Silence flew, And fair Discretion left the place, And Modesty with blushing face; Now enters overweening Pride, And Scandal ever gaping wide; Hypocrisy