THE
MODERN
FINE
LADY
.
—
Miseri
quibus
Intentata
nites
.
HOR.
SKILL'D
in
each
art
,
that
can
adorn
the
fair
,
The
spritely
dance
,
the
soft
Italian
air
,
The
toss
of
quality
,
and
high-bred
fleer
,
Now
lady
Harriot
reach'd
her
fifteenth
year
.
Wing'd
with
diversions
all
her
moments
flew
,
Each
,
as
it
pass'd
,
presenting
something
new
;
Breakfasts
and
auctions
wear
the
morn
away
,
Each
evening
gives
an
opera
,
or
a
play
;
Then
Brag's
eternal
joys
all
night
remain
,
And
kindly
usher
in
the
morn
again
.
For
love
no
time
has
she
,
or
inclination
,
Yet
must
coquet
it
for
the
sake
of
fashion
;
For
this
she
listens
to
each
fop
that's
near
,
Th'
embroider'd
colonel
flatters
with
a
sneer
,
And
the
cropt
ensign
nuzzles
in
her
ear
.
But
with
most
warmth
her
dress
and
airs
inspire
Th'
ambitious
bosom
of
the
landed
'squire
,
Who
fain
would
quit
plump
Dolly's
softer
charms
,
For
wither'd
lean
right
honourable
arms
;
He
bows
with
reverence
at
her
sacred
shrine
,
And
treats
her
as
if
sprung
from
race
divine
,
Which
she
returns
with
insolence
and
scorn
,
Nor
deigns
to
smile
on
a
plebeian
born
.
Ere
long
by
friends
,
by
cards
,
and
lovers
cross'd
,
Her
fortune
,
health
,
and
reputation
lost
;
Her
money
gone
,
yet
not
a
tradesman
paid
,
Her
fame
,
yet
she
still
damn'd
to
be
a
maid
,
Her
spirits
sink
,
her
nerves
are
so
unstrung
,
She
weeps
,
if
but
a
handsome
thief
is
hung
:
By
mercers
,
lacemen
,
mantua-makers
press'd
,
But
most
for
ready
cash
for
play
distress'd
,
Where
can
she
turn
?
—
the
'squire
must
all
repair
,
She
condescends
to
listen
to
his
pray'r
,
And
marries
him
at
length
in
mere
despair
.
But
soon
th'
endearments
of
a
husband
cloy
,
Her
soul
,
her
frame
incapable
of
joy
:
She
feels
no
transports
in
the
bridal
bed
,
Of
which
so
oft
sh'
has
heard
,
so
much
has
read
;
Then
vex'd
,
that
she
should
be
condemn'd
alone
To
seek
in
vain
this
philosophick
stone
,
To
abler
tutors
she
resolves
t'apply
,
A
prostitute
from
curiosity
:
Hence
men
of
ev'ry
sort
,
and
ev'ry
size
,
Impatient
for
heav'n's
cordial
drop
,
she
tries
;
The
fribbling
beau
,
the
rough
unwieldy
clown
,
The
ruddy
templar
newly
on
the
town
,
Th'
Hibernian
captain
of
gigantic
make
,
The
brimful
parson
,
and
th'
exhausted
rake
.
But
still
malignant
Fate
her
wish
denies
,
Cards
yield
superior
joys
,
to
cards
she
flies
;
All
night
from
rout
to
rout
her
chairmen
run
,
Again
she
plays
,
and
is
again
undone
.
Behold
her
now
in
Ruin's
frightful
jaws
!
Bonds
,
judgments
,
executions
,
ope
their
paws
;
Seize
jewels
,
furniture
,
and
plate
,
nor
spare
The
gilded
chariot
,
or
the
tossel'd
chair
,
For
lonely
seat
she's
forc'd
to
quit
the
town
,
And
Tubbs
conveys
the
wretched
exile
down
.
Now
rumbling
o'er
the
stones
of
Tyburn-road
,
Ne'er
press'd
with
a
more
griev'd
or
guilty
load
,
She
bids
adieu
to
all
the
well-known
streets
,
And
envies
ev'ry
cinder-wench
she
meets
:
And
now
the
dreaded
country
first
appears
,
With
sighs
unfeign'd
the
dying
noise
she
hears
Of
distant
coaches
fainter
by
degrees
,
Then
starts
and
trembles
at
the
sight
of
trees
.
Silent
and
sullen
,
like
some
captive
queen
,
She's
drawn
along
,
unwilling
to
be
seen
,
Until
at
length
appears
the
ruin'd
hall
Within
the
grass-green
moat
,
and
ivy'd
wall
,
The
doleful
prison
where
for
ever
she
,
But
not
,
alas
!
her
griefs
,
must
bury'd
be
.
Her
coach
the
curate
and
the
tradesmen
meet
,
Great-coated
tenants
her
arrival
greet
,
And
boys
with
stubble
bonfires
light
the
street
,
While
bells
her
ears
with
tongues
discordant
grate
,
Types
of
the
nuptial
tyes
they
celebrate
:
But
no
rejoicings
can
unbend
her
brow
,
Nor
deigns
she
to
return
one
aukward
bow
,
But
bounces
in
disdaining
once
to
speak
,
And
wipes
the
trickling
tear
from
off
her
cheek
.
Now
see
her
in
the
sad
decline
of
life
,
A
peevish
mistress
,
and
a
sulky
wife
;
Her
nerves
unbrac'd
,
her
faded
cheek
grown
pale
With
many
a
real
,
many
a
fancy'd
ail
;
Of
cards
,
admirers
,
equipage
bereft
;
Her
insolence
,
and
title
only
left
;
Severely
humbled
to
her
one-horse
chair
,
And
the
low
pastimes
of
a
country
fair
:
Too
wretched
to
endure
one
lonely
day
,
Too
proud
one
friendly
visit
to
repay
,
Too
indolent
to
read
,
too
criminal
to
pray
.
At
length
half
dead
,
half
mad
,
and
quite
confin'd
,
Shunning
,
and
shunn'd
by
all
of
human
kind
,
Ev'n
robb'd
of
the
last
comfort
of
her
life
,
Insulting
the
poor
curate's
callous
wife
,
Pride
,
disappointed
pride
,
now
stops
her
breath
,
And
with
true
scorpion
rage
she
stings
herself
to
death
.