WHO IS HE?

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!