"For here, ye fair, no servile rites bear sway, Nor force ye—(though ye promise)—to obey: Blest in the mildness of tins temp'rate zone, Slaves to no whims, or follies—but your own.— Here custom, check'd in ev'ry rude excess, Confines its influence to the arts of dress, O'er charms eclips'd the side-long hat displays, Extends the hoop, or pares away the stays, Bedecks the fair with artificial gear, Breast-works in front, and bishops in the rear:— The idol rears, on beauty's dazzling throne, Mankind her slaves, and all the world her own; Bound by no laws a husband's whims to fear, Obey in life, or burn upon his bier; She views with equal eye, sublime o'er all, A lover perish—or a lap-dog fall— Coxcombs or monkeys from their chains broke loose— And now a husband dead—and now a goose."