ARGUMENT.
Peter fancieth that he hath put the Bishop in a
Passion—he giveth his Opinion of a Book called
Strictures upon Female Education, with
Miss Hannah's name annexed—he subtracteth
greatly from the Merit of Miss Hannah in those
Volumes.—Peter Describeth Miss Hannah's
Mode of manœuvring, by two apt and beautiful
Comparisons, Hemp and Leather—he likeneth
Miss Hannah unto a Hen, who hatcheth the
Eggs of another Bird—he confesseth her exemplary
Piety and Snow-like appearance, but
severely reprimandeth her Uncharitableness
towards the frail ones of her own Sex.—Peter
praiseth his own celestial Disposition in favour
of fallen Beauty—he addresseth the barbarous
Part of the Female Creation: asserting that
Love and an old Lady are not incompatible—
he giveth the Judges a Stroke for their amorous
Faces on Trials of Rape and Crim. Con.
—Peter windeth up sublimely and charitably.
Now, Porteus, I behold thee in a passion,
And thus exclaiming—‘What! Miss Hannah More
No genius! what is then her Education,
So prais'd and echoed o'er and o'er?’
I'll tell thee, Porteus, what.—Miss Hannah's Strictures
Are decent things—perhaps Miss Hannah's plan:
But, trust me, they are all some parson's pictures:
These, Hannah never drew, nor colour'd, man!
At times she finds of hemp a little wad,
Begs some young Levite spin it:—nothing loth,
He adds large quantities of flax, kind lad,
And with the mixture fabricates a cloth.
Again—Miss Hannah finds a scrap of leather,
Horse-skin—and, slily, to some Crispin goes:
Crispin adds calf-skin—puts them both together,
And makes a tolerable pair of shoes.
Miss Hannah may be aptly term'd a hen,
Who sits on pheasant's egg, to kindness prone;
Hatches the birds, a pretty brood; but then,
Weak vanity, she call the chicks her own.
Miss Hannah's piety we all admire,
Her life a field of Alpine snow so white!
And what our good opinion must inspire,
With bishops she could talk from morn to night.
Oh! had good Hannah been not so severe
On each young victim of her tempting bloom!
Instead of sarcasm dropp'd a pitying tear,
And with a beam of comfort cheer'd her gloom!
I cannot drag the nymph to grinning day:
I cannot curse the nymph of yielding charms:
Instead of casting the poor girl away,
Lord! I would rather clasp her in my arms!
Hang on her lip, bestow the generous kiss;
Catch the pure drop that leaves her liquid eye:
And gently chiding the unlicens'd bliss,
Reclaim the beauteous mourner with a sigh.
O think of Love, ye ladies of hard hearts!
Lo nature weaves it close in ev'ry cranny!
Ev'n from old women rarely it departs,
The subject sweet of many a shaking granny.
Ev'n judges for their gravity rever'd,
I've seen upon Crim. Con. with passion gape;
With wanton questions wag the watering beard,
Point the hot eye, and chuckle at a rape.
Prudery, I hate the hag, whose breath would blight
The opening buds of gentle May and June;
Blest to spread darkness, like the cloud of night,
That hangs a dirty malkin on the moon!
Oh, be the wounded prude, who dares reprove,
And furious charge the feeble maid of dame,
A nymph, who, cautious of the torch of Love,
Has never sing'd her honour at its flame.
