A qualm of conscience brings me back again
To make amends to you bespattered men!
We women love like cats, that hide their joys
By growling, squalling, and a hideous noise.
I railed at wild young sparks, but without lying
Never was man worse thought on for high-flying;
The prodigal of love gives each her part,
And squandering shows at least a noble heart.
I've heard of men who in some lewd lampoon
Have hired a friend to make their valour known:
That accusation straight this question brings,
What is the man that does such naughty things?
The spaniel lover, like a sneaking fop,
Lies at our feet; he's scarce worth taking up.
'Tis true, such heroes in a play go far,
But chamber practice is not like the bar.
When men such vile, such faint petitions make,
We fear to give, because they fear to take.
Since modesty's the virtue of our kind,
Pray let it be to our own sex confined:
When men usurp it from the female nation,
'Tis but a work of supererogation.
We showed a Princess in the play, 'tis true,
Who gave her Caesar more than all his due,
Told her own faults; but I should much abhor
To choose a husband for my confessor.
You see what fate followed the saint-like fool
For telling tales from out the nuptial school.
Our play a merry comedy had proved,
Had she confessed as much to him she loved.
True Presbyterian wives the means would try,
But damned confessing is flat popery.