Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/410

398 While crooked Cynthia, sneering, says, That Florimel wears iron stays: Chloe, of every coxcomb jealous, Admires how girls can talk with fellows; And, full of indignation, frets, That women should be such coquets: Iris, for scandal most notorious, Cries, "Lord, the world is so censorious!" And Rufa, with her combs of lead, Whispers that Sappho's hair is red: Aura, whose tongue you hear a mile hence, Talks half a day in praise of silence: And Sylvia, full of inward guilt, Calls Amoret an arrant jilt. Now voices over voices rise, While each to be the loudest vies: They contradict, affirm, dispute, No single tongue one moment mute; All mad to speak, and none to hearken, They set the very lapdog barking; Their chattering makes a louder din Than fishwives o'er a cup of gin: Not schoolboys at a barring out Rais’d ever such incessant rout: The jumbling particles of matter In chaos made not such a clatter; Far less the rabble roar and rail, When drunk with sour election ale. Nor do they trust their tongues alone, But speak a language of their own; Can read a nod, a shrug, a look, Far better than a printed book; Convey a libel in a frown, And wink a reputation down: Or,