Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Madam Villa, I lately have been much inclin'd
To tell you, on paper, a piece of my mind;
So as Sunday is come, my intent to fulfil,
Now the folks have all left me, I take up the quill;
Nor when this you receive, be surpriz'd at the sight,
For, if trees hold discourse, surely houses may write:
And if stones out of walls in some cases will cry,
Indignation may rouse such a building as I,
To mention some truths which you cannot deny.

Not many years since, both in fine and foul weather,
My master and I were seen mostly together;
Now and then in the Summer for health he would roam,
Thro' the fields in the day, but at night was at home;
And convinc'd that to me all his fortune was due,
Was grateful for favours, and constant and true.
You, I know, are the minx who his mind has infected,
You engross all his notice, and I am neglected:

He is ever with you full of laughter and glee,
But complains of the spleen and the head-ach with me.
I'm astonish'd to find him so lavishly waste,
Large sums to supply you with all things in taste;
To hear how you're deck'd with fresh stucco and paint,
And your rooms gaily furnish'd, would anger a saint.
My patience forsakes me, I own, when I view
Best beds, chairs, and pictures, all taken for you.
One decrepid old female's the whole of my state,
While two or three nymphs on your ladyship wait,
And a footman, all gorgeous, attends at your gate.

My fine set of nankeen is convey'd from its place,
With a new urn of silver, your parlour to grace:
The stock in my cellar perceptibly fails,
Sent off by full hampers for rural regales;
And my pantry, before long accustom'd to hold
Rich surloins, is empty; my chimnies are cold.
While smartly he drives to your yard in his chair,
With a load in the seat of all kinds of good fare.

At Christmas deserted, and dark is my hearth,
Once bright with heap'd fuel, choice friends and high mirth;
My sashes are loose, and quite dirty my floors,
And of wind a brisk eddy comes in at my doors;
But clean are your boards, and your frames are all fast,
With bays and gilt leather to keep out the blast;
And the billet and wax-light their splendor display,
As he wastes at quadrille the long evening away.

When painful Reflection past seasons recalls,
How he then stuck to trade, who now figures at balls.
When I think of the bills that for you he must pay,
And that absence from counter makes profit decay,
I bode—but oh! may not the omen prevail,
He who now sleeps in clover may soon lie in jail!
Sometimes he's surpris'd that his shop windows clatter,
It is I who then shudder to think of the matter;
He's amaz'd that he feels so much air at his back,
'Tis a sigh for his danger I send through a crack;
And the drops I let fall, which are rain he conceives,
Oft are tears for his folly that run from my eaves.

Lay aside your allurements and henceforth beware
Of proving to one so incautious a snare;
Bid him act with due prudence; and always confide
In his faithful and trusty old friend of Cheapside.
If after this warning you shamelessly still
Make him shun me, and place his whole bliss on your hill;
If you tempt him to foolishly trifle his hours
Due to sorting of goods, in the nurture of flowers,
Then may Jove rive asunder,
Your roof with his thunder:
Or the wind in a gust
Bring your pride to the dust.
May you perish by rot, flame or water subdu'd,
But my passion mounts high, and I therefore conclude.

Cheapside, Jan. 26, 1786.

This appeared anonymously in the Morning Chronicle.