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THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN:

AN OCCASIONAL ADDRESS SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE
ON HER BENEFIT-NIGHT.

WHILE Europe's eye is fixed 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, in 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 naughty 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!

ADDRESS SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE. 251

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 daresWhen awful Beauty joins with all her charms, Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms?

But truce with kings, and truce with constitu-
tions,

With bloody armaments and revolutions ;
Let Majesty your first attention summon,
Ah! ça ira! the Majesty of Woman!

ADDRESS,

SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE, ON HER BENEFIT-NIGHT,
DECEMBER 4, 1795, at the THEATRE, DUMFRIES.
STILL anxious to secure your partial favour,
And not less anxious, sure, this night, than ever,
A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter,
'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better;
So sought a Poet, roosted near the skies,
Told him I came to feast my curious eyes;
Said, nothing like his works was ever printed;
And last, my Prologue-business slily hinted.
"Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of
rhymes,

"I know your bent-these are no laughing times ;
Can you but Miss, I own I have
my fears-
Dissolve in pause-and sentimental tears?

With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence, Rouse from his sluggish slumbers fell Repentance?

252 ADDRESS SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE.

Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand,
Waving on high the desolating brand,
Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty land?"
I could no more-askance the creature eyeing,
D'ye think, said I, this face was made for crying?
I'll laugh, that's poz-nay more, the world shall
know it;

And so, your servant! gloomy Master Poet!
Firm as my creed, Sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief,
That Misery's another word for Grief:
I also think-so may I be a bride!
That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd.
Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh,
Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye;
Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive-
To make three guineas do the work of five:
Laugh in Misfortune's face-the beldam witch!
Say, you'll be merry, tho' you can't be rich.

Thou other man of care, the wretch in love, Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove; Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, Measur'st in desperate thought a rope-thy neck;

Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep,
Peerest to meditate the healing leap:
Wouldst thou be cur'd, thou silly, moping elf?
Laugh at her follies-laugh e'en at thyself:
Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific,
And love a kinder-that's your grand specific.
To sum up all, be merry, I advise;

And as we're merry, may we still be wise.

VERSES TO A YOUNG LADY,

WITH A PRESENT OF SONGS.

HERE, where the Scottish muse immortal lives,
In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join'd,
Accept the gift; tho' humble he who gives,
Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind.
So may no ruffian-feeling in thy breast,
Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among;
But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest,
Or love ecstatic wake his seraph song:

Or pity's notes, in luxury of tears,

As modest want the tale of woe reveals; While conscious virtue all the strain endears, And heaven-born piety her sanction seals.

POEM ON PASTORAL POETRY.
HAIL, Poesie! thou nymph reserv'd!
In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd
Frae common sense, or sunk enerv'd

'Mang heaps o' clavers; And och! owre aft thy joes hae starv'd, 'Mid a' thy favours!

Say, Lassie, why thy train amang,
While loud the trump's heroic clang,
And sock or buskin skelp alang

To death or marriage;

Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang
But wi' miscarriage?

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives;
Eschylus pen Will Shakespeare drives;
Wee Pope, the knurlin, till him rives
Horatian fame;

In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives
Even Sappho's flame.

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches? They're no herds ballats, Maro's catches: Squire Pope but busks his skinklin patches O' heathen tatters:

I pass by hunders, nameless wretches,

That ape their betters.

In this braw age o' wit and lear,
Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair
Blaw sweetly in its native air

And rural grace;

And wi' the fair-fam'd Grecian, share
A rival place?

Yes! there is ane; a Scottish callan;
There's ane; come forrit, honest Allan!
Thou needna jouk behint the hallan,

A chiel sae clever;

The teeth o' Time may gnaw Tamtallan, But thou's for ever.

Thou paints auld nature to the nines,
In thy sweet Caledonian lines;

Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines,
Where Philomel,

While nightly breezes sweep the vines,

Her griefs will tell!

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