Convey a libel in a frown,
And wink a reputation down;
Or, by the tossing of a fan,
Describe the lady and the man.
But see, the female club disbands,
Each twenty visits on her hands.
Now all alone poor madam sits
In vapours and hysteric fits:
"And was not Tom this morning sent?
I'd lay my life he never went.
Past six, and not a living soul!
I might by this have won a vole."
A dreadful interval of spleen;
How shall we pass the time between?
"Here, Betty, let me take my drops;
And feel my pulse; I know it stops.
This head of mine, Lord, how it swims!
And such a pain in all my limbs!"
"Dear madam! try to take a nap"-
But now they hear a footman's rap:
"Go run, and light the ladies up.
It must be one before we sup."
The table, cards, and counters set,
And all the gamester ladies met,
Her spleen and fits recover'd quite,
Our madam can sit up all night.
"Whoever comes, I'm not within:"-
Quadrille's the word, and so begin.
How can the Muse her aid impart,
Unskill'd in all the terms of art!
Or in harmonious numbers put
The deal, the shuffle, and the cut?
The superstitious whims relate,
That fill a female gamester's pate?
What agony of soul she feels
To see a knave's inverted heels?
She draws up card by card, to find
Good Fortune peeping from behind;
With panting heart and earnest eyes,
In hope to see Spadillo rise:
In vain, alas! her hope is fed;
She draws an ace, and sees it red.
In ready counters never pays,
But pawns her snuff-box, rings, and keys: Ever with some new fancy struck,
Tries twenty charms to mend her luck.
"This morning, when the parson came,
I said I should not win a game.
This odious chair, how came I stuck in't?
I think I never had good luck in't.
I'm so uneasy in my stays:
Your fan a moment, if you please.
Stand further, girl, or get you gone;
I always lose when you look on."
"Lord! madam, you have lost codille;
I never saw you play so ill."
"Nay, madam, give me leave to say
'Twas that threw the game away;
When Lady Tricksey play'd a four,
You took it with a matadore.
I saw you touch your wedding-ring
Before my Lady call'd a King;
You spoke a word began with II,
And I know whom you meant to teach,
Because you held the King of Hearts.
Fie! madam, leave these little arts."
"That's not so bad as one that rubs
Her chair to call the King of Clubs,
And makes her partner understand
A matadore is in her hand."
"Madam, you have no cause to flounce;
I swear I saw you thrice renounce."
"And truly, madam, I know when
Instead of five, you scored me ten.
Spadillo here has got a mark,
A child may know it in the dark:
I guess the hand; it seldom fails;
I wish some folks would pare their nails."
While thus they rail, and scold, and storm, It passes but for common form;
And conscious that they all speak true,
They give each other but their due;
It never interrupts the game,
Or makes them sensible of shame.
The time, too precious now to waste,
And supper gobbled up in haste,
Again afresh to cards they run,
As if they had but just begun.
But I shall not again repeat
How oft they squabble, snarl, and cheat.
At last they hear the watchman knock,
"A frosty morn- -past four o'clock."
The chairmen are not to be found;
"Come, let us play the other round."
Now all in haste they huddle on
Their hoods and cloaks, and get them gone; But first the winner must invite
The company to-morrow night.
Unlucky madam, left in tears, (Who now again quadrille forswears) With empty purse, and aching head,
Steals to her sleeping spouse to bed.
LUTTERING, spread thy purple pinions,
Gentle Cupid, o'er my
I a slave in thy dominions;
Nature must give way to art.
Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,
Nightly nodding o'er your flocks,
See my weary days consuming
All beneath yon flowery rocks.
Thus the Cyprian Goddess, weeping,
Mourn'd Adonis, darling youth;
Him the boar, in silence creeping,
Gored with unrelenting tooth.
Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers ; Fair Discretion, string the lyre: Soothe my ever-waking slumbers: Bright Apollo, lend thy choir.
Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors,
Arm'd in adamantine chains,
Lead me to the crystal mirrors
Watering soft Elysian plains.
Mournful cypress, verdant willow, Gilding my Aurelia's brows, Morpheus, hovering o'er my pillow, Hear me pay my dying vows.
Melancholy, smooth Meander,
Swiftly purling in a round,
On thy margin lovers wander,
With thy flowery chaplets crown'd.
Thus, when Philomela, drooping,
Softly seeks her silent mate, See the bird of Juno stooping; Melody resigns to fate.
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