SPITE of court tricks, of sorrow, madness, pain,
I've brush'd thro' all, and am myself again. —
O Ladies! what cannot our sex perform? —
A bustling woman lives thro' every storm.
Have I not dash'd my character with spirit?
To bully  was no small merit.
Around the world to find the wretch I'd search,
Who dares to leave a woman in the lurch. —
My son the dupe of regal baseness made,
Myself amus'd by hopes, cajol'd, betray'd,
My jointure lost, a widow, and not young,
I had no weapon left me but my tongue —