(Continuing the narrative that began here.)
Letter the Seventh: Miss Honoria Wells to Sir George Purvis.
My own beloved George,——
Imprisoned here like the illustrious Rozabel among the Barbary Pirates, tho’ without the daily Necessity of defending my Honor, I cannot but suppose that this Dulness of which you complain in London must be a poor weakling Dulness, hardly worthy of the Name, when measured against the hard and unyielding Dulness which keeps me an unwilling Captive here. Yet Rozabel found her Alphonzo at last; and so I trust that my George in Time shall come to set me free, and make me exchange the unwilling Slavery from which I long to escape, for that willing Submission from which I shall never desire to be released.
Thus I remain, &c.
A Poem by Mr. M——, written on the Occasion of seeing a Demonstration of the celebrated Automaton by Doctor Albertus.
O Women! ye have borne the Wits’ Abuse,
And Libels without Number or Excuse;
What Gibes and Innuendoes most impure
With Patience more than Job’s do ye endure!
But now, to Arms! Let all arise as one:
To Arms! To Arms, or ye are all undone!
A greater Threat upon the Field is seen:
The Enemy not Man, but a Machine!
For once, tho’ Wits pretended to despise
The Lure of cherry Lips, or glist’ning Eyes,
The Touch of Fingers delicately slim,—
Man needed Woman, more than she did him.
But now the Beaux all suddenly have spurn’d
Their celebrated Beauties, and have turn’d
Their rapt Attention to a clockwork Toy,
With Transports of unfathomable Joy.
Let Barriers of Rank be thrust aside;
Let Queen with common Hussy be ally’d;
Let ev’ry Art of Woman be employ’d
To win back the Esteem you once enjoy’d.
Make such Adjustments to your Face and Gown
As will turn back the Eyes of Beaux in Town;
Let over-scrupled Virtue be no Bar:
With delicate Allurements win the War.
For should ye lose this Battle, then I fear
The Ruin of the Race of Man is near.