A Reply to Quevedo.

These lines were suggested by some sprightly verses, entitled "Who is She?" that had recently appeared in Fraser's Magazine.

A Spanish writer once decided,
In flippant song,
That woman's lip, or tongue, or eye did
All that went wrong.
Nay, that the true mode of unmasking
Her wiles would be,
On all occasions simply asking—
Pray, who is she?
Now, why must woman's petticoats
Aye be the blamables?
How is't Quevedo never quotes
Mankind's unnamables?
He rates the sex, and certÈs for it he
Makes a good plea;
But can't I, on as good authority,
Ask, who is he?
Quevedo swears that Eve and Helen
Wrought dire mishaps:
That Adam and the Trojans fell in
Their deep-laid traps.
Eve?—why Diabolus beguiled her;
You know't, Quevedo!
Helen?—that rascal Paris wiled her:
That's Homer's credo!

Trust me, man causes woman's failing;
And, on my life,
He's always wantonly assailing
Maid, widow, wife.
Beneath the surface let the gazer
Look deep—he'll see
Some stronger vessel that betrays her:
Just ask—who's he?
Is it a milk-maid drops her pailful?—
Lubin's love-making:
Is her fate scandalous or baleful?—
Lubin's been raking!
The school-girl loaths her bread and butter,
Pouts o'er her tea,
Mumbles her lessons in a flutter—
Ask, who is he?
Despite experience, what can set
The widow hoping?
Why are wives sometimes gadding met,
And sometimes moping?
Don't talk of widows' amorous bump,
Of wives too free;
But pop the question to them, plump—
Pray, who is he?
We're mighty prompt to throw the blame on
The weaker fair sex;
When justice ought to fix the shame on
Ours—not on their sex.
Ours the seduction and the fooling,
If such there be:
Come; your exception to this ruling—
Pray, who is he?
The old and hump-backed ply their battery
Of gold and jewels;
Well-knit young fellows deal in flattery,
Dance, song, oaths, duels.
So, to conclude, I'll take my oath, sir,
Upon the Bible,
That to blame one—in place of both, sir,—
Is a gross libel!