LITMIR.BIZ

      While Europe’s eye is fix’d on mighty things,

      The fate of empires and the fall of kings;

      While quacks of state must each produce his plan,

      And even children lisp the Rights of Man;

      Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention,

      The Rights of Woman merit some attention.

      First on the sexes’ intermix’d connexion,

      One sacred Right of Woman is protection.

      The tender flower that lifts its head, elate,

      Helpless, must fall before the blasts of fate,

      Sunk on the earth, defac’d its lovely form,

      Unless your shelter ward th’ impending storm.

      Our second Right—but needless here is caution,

      To keep that right inviolate’s the fashion,

      Each man of sense has it so full before him,

      He’d die before he’d wrong it—’tis decorum.—

      There was, indeed, in far less polish’d days,

      A time, when rough, rude man had haughty ways;

      Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot,

      Nay, even thus invade a lady’s quiet.

      Now, thank our stars! these Gothic times are fled;

      Now, well-bred men—and you are all well-bred—

      Most justly think (and we are much the gainers)

      Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners.

      For Right the third, our last, our best, our dearest,

      That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest,

      Which even the Rights of Kings in low prostration

      Most humbly own—’tis dear, dear admiration!

      In that blest sphere alone we live and move;

      There taste that life of life—immortal love.—

      Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs,

      ‘Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares—

      When awful Beauty joins with all her charms,

      Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms?

      But truce with kings and truce with constitutions,

      With bloody armaments and revolutions,

      Let majesty your first attention summon,

      Ah! ça ira! the majesty of woman!

      How cold is that bosom which folly once fired,

      How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten’d!

      How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tired,

      How dull is that ear which to flattery so listen’d!

      If sorrow and anguish their exit await,

      From friendship and dearest affection remov’d;

      How doubly severer, Maria, thy fate,

      Thou diest unwept as thou livedst unlov’d.

      Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you;

      So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear:

      But come, all ye offspring of Folly so true,

      And flowers let us cull for Maria’s cold bier.

      We’ll search through the garden for each silly flower,

      We’ll roam through the forest for each idle weed;

      But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower,

      For none e’er approach’d her but rued the rash deed.

      We’ll sculpture the marble, we’ll measure the lay;

      Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre;

      There keen indignation shall dart on her prey,

      Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from his ire.

      THE EPITAPH

      Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect,

      What once was a butterfly, gay in life’s beam:

      Want only of wisdom denied her respect,

      Want only of goodness denied her esteem