A cruel father some prepare
To drag her by her flaxen hair;
Some raise a storm, and some a ghost,
Take either, which may please you most.
But this you must with care observe,
That when you've wound up every nerve
With expectation, hope and fear,
Hero and heroine must disappear.
Some fill one book, some two without 'em,
And ne'er concern their heads about 'em,
This greatly rests the writer's brain,
For any story, that gives pain,
You now throw in — no matter what,
However foreign to the plot,
So it but serves to swell the book,
You foist it in with desperate hook —
A masquerade, a murder'd peer,
His throat just cut from ear to ear —
A rake turn'd hermit — a fond maid
Run mad, by some false loon betray'd —
These stores supply the female pen,
Which writes them o'er and o'er again,
And readers likewise may be found
To circulate them round and round.