Yes, there is one, an ancient art,
By sages found to reach the heart,
Ere science, with distinctions. nice,
Had fix'd what virtue is and vice,
Inventing all the various names
On which the moralist declaims :
They would by simple tales advise,
Which took the hearer by surprise;
Alarm'd his conscience, unprepar'd
Ere pride had put it on its guard:
And made him from himself receive
The lessons which they meant to give.
That this device will oft prevail,
And gain its end, when others fail,
If any shall pretend to doubt,
The TALE which follows makes it out.
There was a little stubborn dame,
Whom no authority could tame;
Restive by long indulgence grown,
No will she minded but her own:
At trifles oft she'd scold and fret,
Then in a corner take a seat,
And, sourly moping all the day,
Disdain alike to work or play.
Papa all softer arts had tried,
And sharper remedies applied;
But both were vain, for every course
He took still made her worse and worse.
'Tis strange to think how female wit
So oft should make a lucky hit,
When man, with all his high pretence
To deeper judgment, sounder sense,
Will err, and measures false pursue-
'Tis very strange, I own, but true.-
Mamma observ'd the rising lass
By stealth retiring to the glass,
To practise little airs, unseen,
In the true genius of thirteen :
On this a deep design she laid
To tame the humour of the maid;
Contriving, like a prudent mother,
To make one folly cure another.