To a Lady , who commanded me to send her an Account in Verse , how I succeeded in my Subscription . How I succeed , you kindly ask ; Yet set me on a grievous Task , When you oblige me to rehearse , The Censures past upon my Verse . Tho' I with Pleasure may relate , That many , truly good , and great , With candid Eye my Lines survey , And smile upon the artless Lay ; To those with grateful Heart I bend — But your Commands I must attend . SERVILLA cries , I hate a Wit ; Women should to their Fate submit , Should in the Needle take Delight ; 'Tis out of Character to write : She may succeed among the Men ; They tell me , Swift subscribes for Ten ; And some say , Dorset does the same ; But she shall never have my Name : Her Poetry has cost me dear ; When Lady Carteret was here , The Widow Gordon got my Guinea ; For which I own myself a Ninny . OLIVIA loses oft at Play ; So will not throw her Gold away . Thus Silvia , of the haughty Tribe : She never ask'd me to subscribe , Nor ever wrote a Line on me , I was no Theme for Poetry ! She rightly judg'd ; I have no Taste — For Womens Poetry , at least . Then Fulvia made this sage Reply ; ( And look'd with self-sufficient Eye : ) I oft have said , and say again , Verses are only writ by Men ; I know a Woman cannot write ; I do not say this out of Spite ; Nor shall be thought , by those who know me , To envy one so much below me . SABINA , fam'd in Wisdom's School , Allows I write — but am a Fool : " What ! — must our Sons be form'd by Rhyme ? " A fine Way to employ one's Time ! " ALBINO has no gold to waste , Far gone in the Italian Taste : He vows he must subscribe this Year , To keep dear Two famous Italian Singers , zealously supported by different Parties . Carestini here ; Not from a narrow Party View ; He doats on Senesino too ; By Turns their Int'rest he'll espouse ; He's for the public Good , he vows ; A gen'rous Ardor fires his Breast . Hail , Britain , in such Patriots blest ! Says Belvidera , Since a Wit Or Friend or Foe alike will hit , Deliver me from Wits , I say ; Grant Heav'n , they ne'er may cross my Way ! Besides , I oft have heard it hinted , Her Poems never will be printed : Her Sickness is a Feint , no doubt , To keep her Book from coming out . Of Wit , says Celia , I'll acquit her ; Then archly fell into a Titter . A Female Bard ! Pulvillio cries ; 'Tis possible she may be wise ; But I could never find it yet , Tho' oft in Company we met : She talks just in the common Way : Sure Wits their Talents should display ; Their Language surely should be bright , Before they should pretend to write : I'll ne'er subscribe for Books , says he ; 'Fore Gad , it looks like Pedantry . High-born Belinda loves to blame ; On Criticism founds her Fame : Whene'er she thinks a Fault she spies How Pleasure sparkles in her Eyes ! Call it not Poetry , she says ; No — Call it Rhyming , if you please : Her Numbers might adorn a Ring , Or serve along the Streets to sing : Stella and Flavia's well enough ; What else I saw , was stupid Stuff ; Nor Love nor Satire in her Lays , Insipid ! neither pain nor please : I promis'd once to patronize her ; But on Reflection , I was wiser : Yet I subscrib'd among the rest ; I love to carry on a Jest . BELINDA thus her Anger shows , Nor tells the World , from whence it flows : With more Success to wound my Lays , She gilds the Dart with other Praise : To her own Breast I leave the Fair Convinc'd I stand acquitted there . AMANDA , your Commands , you see , Tho' grievous , are obey'd by me . What my Friends told me had been said , Just as it came into my Head , No matter for the Place or Time , To shew your Pow'r , I tag with Rhyme . Now let some News salute your Ear , Tho' I have weary'd you , I fear : Know , — has Vengeance vow'd , And in the Furies Temple bow'd : He but suspends his Wrath , he says , Till he can criticise my Lays . Malice , thy Rancour I expect , And shall return it — with Neglect : Go on , display your treasur'd Rage ; Invectives shall not blot my Page : What real Faults you note , I'll mend : Proceed , your Efforts I attend ; Taught early , Dryden , by thy Song , They ne'er forgive , who do the Wrong . Now to the Muse I bid Adieu ; Nor rail at her , as Poets do : Protected by the Good and Great , I'll not repine , but bless my Fate . You , Madam , who your Sex adorn , Who Malice and Detraction scorn , Who with superior Sense are bless'd , Of ev'ry real Worth possess'd ; With Eye indulgent view my Lays : You know to blame , but love to praise : You know my Faults , and know beside , I want not to be mortify'd . One Merit I presume to boast , And dare to plead but one at most : The Muse I never have debas'd ; My Lays are innocent at least ; Were ever ardently design'd To mend and to enlarge the Mind . This must be own'd a virtuous Aim . The Praise of Wit — let others claim .