| |
| A School for Scandal! tell me, I beseech you, | |
| Needs there a school this modish art to teach you? | |
| No need of lessons now, the knowing think; | |
| We might as well be taught to eat and drink. | |
| Caused by a dearth of scandal, should the vapours | 5 |
| Distress our fair ones—let them read the papers; | |
| Their powerful mixtures such disorders hit; | |
| Crave what you will—there’s quantum sufficit. | |
| “Lord!” cries my Lady Wormwood (who loves tattle, | |
| And puts much salt and pepper in her prattle), | 10 |
| Just risen at noon, all night at cards when threshing | |
| Strong tea and scandal—“Bless me, how refreshing! | |
| Give me the papers, Lisp—how bold and free! [Sips. | |
| Last night Lord L. [Sips] was caught with Lady D. | |
| For aching heads what charming sal volatile! [Sips. | 15 |
| If Mrs. B. will still continue flirting, | |
| We hope she’ll DRAW, or we’ll UNDRAW the curtain. | |
| Fine satire, poz—in public all abuse it, | |
| But by ourselves [Sips], our praise we can’t refuse it. | |
| Now, Lisp, read you—there, at that dash and star:” | 20 |
| “Yes, ma’am—A certain lord had best beware, | |
| Who lives not twenty miles from Grosvenor Square; | |
| For, should he Lady W. find willing, | |
| Wormwood is bitter”—“Oh! that’s me! the villain! | |
| Throw it behind the fire, and never more | 25 |
| Let that vile paper come within my door.” | |
| Thus at our friends we laugh, who feel the dart; | |
| To reach our feelings, we ourselves must smart. | |
| Is our young bard so young, to think that he | |
| Can stop the full spring-tide of calumny? | 30 |
| Knows he the world so little, and its trade? | |
| Alas! the devil’s sooner raised than laid. | |
| So strong, so swift, the monster there’s no gagging: | |
| Cut Scandal’s head off, still the tongue is wagging. | |
| Proud of your smiles once lavishly bestowed, | 35 |
| Again our young Don Quixote takes the road: | |
| To show his gratitude he draws his pen, | |
| And seeks this hydra, Scandal, in his den. | |
| For your applause all perils fie would through— | |
| He’ll fight—that’s write—a cavalliero true, | 40 |
| Till every drop of blood—that’s ink—is spilt for you. | |
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