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when suddenly the Door sprang open, and who should enter but Mr. Pope himself!
    “O Sir,” I said, “you were just at this very Moment in my Thoughts.”
    “And so were you in mine,” says the Poet, coming towards me, with a goatish Smile upon his Lips.
    “I was just this Moment wond’ring,” I said, the Blood flying up into my Face, Neck, and Breasts, “if I might pose you a few Queries concerning the Art of Poesy.”
    “Pose all you like, my Dear,” says he, loping o’er to the Bed, and seating himself upon the edge of it, whence his tiny Legs dangl’d like broken Twigs in the Wind, after a Storm.
    “Well, then,” said I, so engross’d in my Thoughts of the Muses that I scarce troubl’d to enquire what he was doing in my Chamber, “is it vain for a Woman to wish to be a Poet, or e’en to be the first Female Laureate someday?”
    Whereupon he broke into a Gale of unkind Laughter, which made me blush still harder for my presum’d Foolishness.
    “Fanny, my Dear, the Answer is implied in the Query itself. Men are Poets; Women are meant to be their Muses upon Earth. You are the Inspiration of the Poems, not the Creator of Poems, and why should you wish it otherwise?”
    I confess I was dumbfounded by the Manner in which he pos’d his Query and press’d his Point. I had my own tentative first Verses secreted directly ’neath the Pillow of the Bed, but I was far too abash’d at that Moment to draw ’em out and ask his Opinion. I’faith, with each Word he utter’d, I was coming, increasingly, to disdain those Verses, which only a few Moments before had seem’d touch’d with the Fire of the Muses.
    “See these fine twin Globes?” said the Poet, suddenly reaching into my Boddice and disengaging my Breasts. I gasp’d with Shock but dar’d not interrupt the Poet’s Flow of beauteous Words:
    “See their roseate Nipples, the Colour of Summer Dawn? Why, they are like the twin Planets of an undiscover’d Cosmos,” says he, “and these Lips…” (he made bold to glue his cold, clammy Lips to one Nipple) “are like unto the Explorer who comes to set his Standard upon their Shores…”
    Alarm’d as I was, I could not think of how to interrupt him without insulting an honour’d Guest, and as he suckt upon one Nipple and then the other, firing my Blood and putting all my Thoughts into Disorder, my Resolve grew e’er more befuddl’d. For tho’ I found his Person loathsome, his Words were fine and elegant, and despite what he argu’d about the Fair Sex and the Art of Poesy, I was e’er more conquer’d by fine Language than by fine Looks.
    “But Sir,” I protested, moving, albeit momentarily, out of his Grasp, “is not Inspiration a Thing which hath no Gender, is neither male nor female, as Angels are neither male nor female?”
    “In Theory, that is correct,” said the Poet, reaching under my Shift and insinuating a cold, clammy Hand betwixt my dampening Thighs, “but in Practice, Inspiration more frequently visits those of the Male Sex, and for this following Reason, mark you well. As the Muse is female, so the Muse is more likely to receive male Lovers than female ones. Therefore, a Woman Poet is an Absurdity of Nature, a vile, despis’d Creature whose Fate must e’er be Loneliness, Melancholy, Despair, and eventually Self-Slaughter. Howe’er, if she chooses the sensible Path, and devotes her whole Life to serving a Poet of the Masculine Gender, the Gods shall bless her, and all the Universe resound with her Praise. ’Tis all part of Nature’s Great Plan. As Angels are above Men and God is above Angels, so Women are below Men and above Children and Dogs; but if Women seek to upset that Great Order by usurping Men in their proper Position of Superiority, both in the Arts and the Sciences, as well as Politicks, Society, and Marriage, they reap nothing but Chaos and Anarchy, and i’faith the whole World tumbles to its Ruin.”
    So saying, he had managed to wiggle a Finger upward into