I thought my good Sir, but I find I was wrong,
And my inference truly absurd,
That you hoped I had come to the end of my Song
Which in truth you had found already too long,
And that you wish’d to have the Last Word.
And pray have you not by your malice propense
My anger tremendous incurr’d?
You’ve extinguish’d my light, made the atmosphere dense,
Then how can you think thus bereav’d of a sense
I can “manage” to give the Last Word?
Of our whimsical charter you seem the defender
To the lady this ne’er had occurr’d,
But alas! should the Muse not deign to befriend her
This charter to you she will quickly surrender
And still ask of you, the Last Word.
As this subject to quit you don’t give permission
And disputing you still have preferr’d
I will venture to write, and prescribe as physician
Not to yours, but my Sex, the use of submission
Which should ever be Woman’s Last Word.