The Shamrock or, Hibernian Cresses. A Collection of Poems, Songs, Epigrams, &c. Latin as well as English, The Original Production of Ireland. To which are subjoined thoughts on the prevailing system of school education, respecting young ladies as well as gentlemen: with practical proposals for a reformation [by Samuel Whyte] |
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THE PETITION OF MARGARET WOFFINGTON, TO HIS GRACE, THE DUKE OF DORSET. |
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 | The Shamrock |  |
THE PETITION OF MARGARET WOFFINGTON, TO HIS GRACE, THE DUKE OF DORSET.
May 't please your Grace, with all Submission,
I humbly offer my Petition:
Let others, with as small Pretensions,
Teaze you for Places, and for Pensions;
I scorn a Pension, or a Place;
My sole Design's upon your Grace.
The Sum of my Petition's this,
I claim, my Lord, an annual Kiss;
A Kiss, by sacred Custom, due
To me, and to be paid by you:
But, lest you entertain a Doubt,
I'll make my Title clearly out.
I humbly offer my Petition:
Let others, with as small Pretensions,
Teaze you for Places, and for Pensions;
I scorn a Pension, or a Place;
My sole Design's upon your Grace.
The Sum of my Petition's this,
I claim, my Lord, an annual Kiss;
A Kiss, by sacred Custom, due
To me, and to be paid by you:
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I'll make my Title clearly out.
It was, as near as I can fix,
The fourth of April, Forty-six.
(With Joy I recollect the Day)
As I was dressing for the Play,
In stepp'd your Grace; and, at your Back,
Appear'd my trusty Guardian Mac.
A sudden Tremor shook my Frame;
Lord! how my Colour went, and came!
At length, to make my Story short,
You kiss'd me, Sir,—Heaven bless you for't:
The magic Touch my Spirits drew
Up to my Lips, and out they flew;
Such Pain, and Pleasure, mix'd, I vow,
I felt all o'er—I can't tell how.
The Secret, when your Grace withdrew,
Like Lightening, to the Green-Room flew,
And plung'd the Women in the Spleen;
The Men receiv'd me as their Queen,
And, from that Moment, swore Allegiance;
Nay, Rich himself was all Obedience.
Since that, your Grace has never, yet,
Refus'd to pay the annual Debt.
To prove the Fact, if you would have it,
Old Mac will make an Affidavit:
If Mac's suspected as a Fibber,
I must appeal to Laureat Cibber.
The fourth of April, Forty-six.
(With Joy I recollect the Day)
As I was dressing for the Play,
In stepp'd your Grace; and, at your Back,
Appear'd my trusty Guardian Mac.
A sudden Tremor shook my Frame;
Lord! how my Colour went, and came!
At length, to make my Story short,
You kiss'd me, Sir,—Heaven bless you for't:
The magic Touch my Spirits drew
Up to my Lips, and out they flew;
Such Pain, and Pleasure, mix'd, I vow,
I felt all o'er—I can't tell how.
The Secret, when your Grace withdrew,
Like Lightening, to the Green-Room flew,
And plung'd the Women in the Spleen;
The Men receiv'd me as their Queen,
And, from that Moment, swore Allegiance;
Nay, Rich himself was all Obedience.
Since that, your Grace has never, yet,
Refus'd to pay the annual Debt.
To prove the Fact, if you would have it,
Old Mac will make an Affidavit:
If Mac's suspected as a Fibber,
I must appeal to Laureat Cibber.
By good Advice, I hither came,
To keep up my continual Claim:
The Duty's not confin'd to Place;
But, every where, affects your Grace;
Which, being personal on You,
No Deputy, my Lord, can do.
‘But, hold:’ say some, ‘His Situation
‘Is chang'd; consider his high Station.’
Can Station, or can Titles add
To Dorset more than Dorset had?
Let others, void of native Grace,
Derive faint Honour from a Place;
His Greatness to himself he owes;
Nor borrows Lustre, but bestows.
‘That's true: But, still, you answer wide—
‘How can he lay his State aside?
‘Then think betimes; Can your weak Sight
‘Support that wondrous Burst of Light?
‘Will you not sicken, as you gaze?
‘Nay, haply, perish in the Blaze?
‘Remember Semele, who dy'd,
‘A fatal Victim to her Pride.’
Glorious Example!—How it fires me!—
I burn!—and all the God inspires me!
My Bosom is to Fear a Stranger;
The Prize is more enhanc'd by Danger;
I bless the Wound, when given by you;
And hug the Bolt, though Death ensue.
To keep up my continual Claim:
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But, every where, affects your Grace;
Which, being personal on You,
No Deputy, my Lord, can do.
‘But, hold:’ say some, ‘His Situation
‘Is chang'd; consider his high Station.’
Can Station, or can Titles add
To Dorset more than Dorset had?
Let others, void of native Grace,
Derive faint Honour from a Place;
His Greatness to himself he owes;
Nor borrows Lustre, but bestows.
‘That's true: But, still, you answer wide—
‘How can he lay his State aside?
‘Then think betimes; Can your weak Sight
‘Support that wondrous Burst of Light?
‘Will you not sicken, as you gaze?
‘Nay, haply, perish in the Blaze?
‘Remember Semele, who dy'd,
‘A fatal Victim to her Pride.’
Glorious Example!—How it fires me!—
I burn!—and all the God inspires me!
My Bosom is to Fear a Stranger;
The Prize is more enhanc'd by Danger;
I bless the Wound, when given by you;
And hug the Bolt, though Death ensue.
| The Shamrock | |