THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN, An Occasional Address spoken by Miss Fontenelle on her Benefit-Night. WHILE Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things, First, in the sexes' intermix'd connexion, One sacred Right of Woman is protection.The tender flower that lifts its head, elate, Helpless, must fall before the blasts of fate, Sunk on the earth, defac'd its lovely form, Unless your shelter ward the' impending storm. Our second Right-but needless here is caution, To keep that right inviolate's the fashion, Each man of sense has it so full before him, He'd die before he'd wrong it-'tis decorum.There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days, A time, when rough rude man had naughty ways; Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot, Nay, even thus invade a lady's quiet Now, thank our stars! these Gothic times are fled; Now, well bred men-and you are all well-bred-Most justly think (and we are much the gainers) Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners. For Right the third, our last, our best, our dearest, That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest, Which even the Rights of Kings in low prostration Most humbly own-'tis dear, dear admiration! But truce with kings, and truce with constitutions, With bloody armaments and revolutions; ADDRESS, Spoken by Miss Fontenelle, on her Benefit-Night, December 4, 1795, at the Theatre, Dumfries. STILL anxious to secure your partial favour, Ma'am, let me tell you,' quoth my man of rhymes, 'I know your bent-these are no laughing times: Can you but Miss, I own I have my fears, 'Dissolve in pause-and sentimental tears— With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence, Rouse from his sluggish slumbers fell Repentance; 'Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand, Waving on high the desolating brand, < Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty land?'. I could no more-askance the creature eyeing, D'ye think, said I, this face was made for crying? I'll laugh, that's poz-nay more, the world shall know it; And so, your servant! gloomy Master Poet! Firm as my creed, Sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief, That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd. Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh, Thou other man of care, the wretch in love, Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove; Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, Measur'st in desperate thought-a rope-thy neck--Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep, Pecrest to meditate the healing leap: Would'st thou be cur'd, thou silly, moping elf? Laugh at her follies-laugh e'en at thyself: Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific, And love a kinder-that's your grand specific. To sum up all, be merry, I advise ; And as we're merry, may we still be wise. SONGS. THE LEA RIG. WHEN o'er the hill the eastern star, My ain kind dearie O. In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild, The hunter lo'es the morning sun, Along the burn to steer, my jo; |