 | Poems |  |
Mrs. BATES.
When Bates in the spleen her fiertè dispenses,
Her angry eloquence jars all the senses;
No delicate springs give a force to her soul,
Or sentiment chains keep her rage in controul:
Untutor'd, ungraceful, unblest, unrefin'd,
With a sonorous voice, and a masculine mind;
Like tempest-fraught furies, whose tongues never cease,
The sound of her lays frright the offspring of Peace;
Like Orion in heaven, her ill-omen'd form
Ne'er bursts on the scene, but it threatens a storm;
And her tones wound the ear, 'till, transfix'd with our wonder,
We all scud aghast, from the feminine thunder.
Her accents are harsh, ill-conceiv'd, and erroneous;
They're sometimes explicit, but never harmonious:
With a terrific tongue to assist a detractress,
They spoilt a good scold when they made her an actress.
No gentle ingredients seem mix'd with her clay,
For the vixen's in front, be the part what it may:
Her humours are rancid, her lungs are Stentorian,
Her soul seems perturbed, as winds hyperborean:
Like the Lamia 'mid Hebrews, distracted and wild,
She appalls by her ranting, man, woman, and child!
Her angry eloquence jars all the senses;
No delicate springs give a force to her soul,
Or sentiment chains keep her rage in controul:
Untutor'd, ungraceful, unblest, unrefin'd,
With a sonorous voice, and a masculine mind;
Like tempest-fraught furies, whose tongues never cease,
The sound of her lays frright the offspring of Peace;
Like Orion in heaven, her ill-omen'd form
Ne'er bursts on the scene, but it threatens a storm;
And her tones wound the ear, 'till, transfix'd with our wonder,
We all scud aghast, from the feminine thunder.
Her accents are harsh, ill-conceiv'd, and erroneous;
They're sometimes explicit, but never harmonious:
With a terrific tongue to assist a detractress,
They spoilt a good scold when they made her an actress.
No gentle ingredients seem mix'd with her clay,
For the vixen's in front, be the part what it may:
148
Her soul seems perturbed, as winds hyperborean:
Like the Lamia 'mid Hebrews, distracted and wild,
She appalls by her ranting, man, woman, and child!
To personate women of fashion she's wrong,
As to her the calm graces did never belong;
'Tis a caricature of original truth,
Like Age mumbling crusts that were destin'd for youth.
'Tis an outrage on Ease, when she labours to smile,
A malevolent grin seems the fruit of the soil;
For the spiteful young congress that play in her eye,
Give the hard-finish'd laugh on her visage the lie.
As to her the calm graces did never belong;
'Tis a caricature of original truth,
Like Age mumbling crusts that were destin'd for youth.
'Tis an outrage on Ease, when she labours to smile,
A malevolent grin seems the fruit of the soil;
For the spiteful young congress that play in her eye,
Give the hard-finish'd laugh on her visage the lie.
Her port seems as awkward in high polish'd vanity,
As a lawyer who talks of his God and humanity;
Or a modern dramatist, who prates about wit,
Or an uncarted bawd, when she quotes holy writ;
Or Morgan haranguing on legal ability,
Or Hawkins enforcing the bliss of humility;
Or hallow'd Will Peters when raving 'bout charity,
Or Boydell descanting on feasts and hilarity;
Or Barry when swearing that Fortune a jade is;
Or Johnny Burnell when saluting the ladies.
As a lawyer who talks of his God and humanity;
Or a modern dramatist, who prates about wit,
Or an uncarted bawd, when she quotes holy writ;
Or Morgan haranguing on legal ability,
Or Hawkins enforcing the bliss of humility;
Or hallow'd Will Peters when raving 'bout charity,
Or Boydell descanting on feasts and hilarity;
Or Barry when swearing that Fortune a jade is;
Or Johnny Burnell when saluting the ladies.
| Poems | |