Hannah More

Tho' Roscius will not read your trash,
Or tho' he may deserve a lash,
Yet spare a Lady, Mr. Flash.

But haply it your spleen may raise,
To see a woman merit praise,
And wear the green poetic bays.

From such home thrusts, the Lord defend her!
Or did you think her a Pretender?
Some D'Eon, of the neuter gender?

Or was it really ignorance
Which made you thus in rhyme advance,
And tread your mock-satirist dance?

Permit the fair unblam'd to write!
That every little over-sight
Should bear it's comment, is not right.

The faithful Dog too you defame;
Would he back-bite his master's fame?
'Tis poaching this, not Dragon's game.

Yet (or Report's not worth a button)
Tho' Venison you may not cut on,
Yourself have tasted Hampton mutton.

Garrick a Sun! a Moon the Fair?
Say in what rank will you appear?
A meteor of a lower sphere.