University of Virginia Library

Well, Dames and Sirs, we've had rare doings here,
Princes in van, conspirators in rear!
To-night you've seen what patriots were of yore,
Tyrants you've heard declaim, and Tartars roar:
Nor dare ye now deny they were indeed
A race of mortals wond'rous apt to bleed.
The dames of China were so fond of death,
Maids, on their wedding night, gave up their breath,
And husbands (Ladies how unlike your own)
Stole off, before the honey-moon was down.
Your Eastern bridegrooms offered up their wives,
Whene'er the general welfare claim'd their lives;
Each beauteous victim, at her Lord's command,
Took the dire instrument of fate in hand,
Amidst the red-hot pile undaunted stood,
Burnt, hung, or drowned, for the public good.
“Do die, my dear,” the tender husband said,
“This for thy country,”—then struck off her head.
Untimely deaths were then, indeed, so common,
Woman for sport kill'd man, as man kill'd woman.
A bowl of poison was the virgin's end,
She drank it off—and call'd it Virtue's friend,
Bent her white bosom to the patriot blow,
And saw the streams of life unheeded flow.
Then whisper'd her kind Lord—but not to save her,
Give him the blade:—he thank'd her for the favour,
“Take it my dearest—soft!—you know the rest,”
The good man seiz'd and plung'd it in his breast;
Then side by side, most lovingly they lye,
Kiss and expire without one dastard sigh.

To Britons turn we from such tribes as these,
Britons, who please to live, and live to please;
Our English dames, such killing customs hate,
And born to conquer, ne'er submit to fate.
Should some deep ruin on their country press,
Too generous they—to leave her in distress.
Instead of dying—they like patriots stout,
Boldly live on, and tire the mischief out.
Or if some off'ring the stern fates require,
They nobly spare—their husbands to the fire,
“Yes, ye lov'd Lords”—We give ye up, they cry,
“'Tis for the general good ye all should die;”
Alas, sad widows, sure our hearts will break!
But we will bear it for our country's sake.
“Yet, oh dear martyrs, what we still must dread,
“Is lest the state again should bid us—wed.”

Ye pride of Albion, your's the graceful art,
To point with nicer skill the potent dart;
Your's the soft privilege, whole ranks to kill,
And make death lovely, tho' no blood ye spill;
Ye, like the chalky cliffs that guard our coast,
Assert your skies, and are yourselves an host;
Tho' of young roses are your fetters made,
In vain would lion man their force evade:
Tho' your triumphant car is drawn by doves,
And to the wheels your captives tied by loves.
Not vex'd Ixion e'er was bound so fast,
And while you frown the punishment must last.
Fame, life, and death, are in your conquering eyes;
And of each polish'd art your smiles the prize:
O, for our toils, in every beauteous face,
Those fair rewards of pleasing may we trace.