 | Poems |  |
191
KENSINGTON-SQUARE.
A familiar Colloquy.
As four strange nymphs one summer's morn,
Ate strawberries and cream,
The silent Square of Kensington
Became the fav'rite theme.
Ate strawberries and cream,
The silent Square of Kensington
Became the fav'rite theme.
'Twas Truth and Wit, and Spleen and Rage,
Who met by chance together;
In sweet Pomona's perfum'd cot,
Attracted by the weather.
Who met by chance together;
In sweet Pomona's perfum'd cot,
Attracted by the weather.
On what 'twas like, and what 'twas not,
They pass'd the fleeting hour;
But every simile they made,
Seem'd tinctur'd with the sour.
They pass'd the fleeting hour;
But every simile they made,
Seem'd tinctur'd with the sour.
Keen Wit compar'd it to a hive,
Where drones in myriads cluster'd;
To feed upon the honey'd stores,
That bees with toil had muster'd.
Where drones in myriads cluster'd;
To feed upon the honey'd stores,
That bees with toil had muster'd.
Said Rage, 'twas built by angry Fate,
To coop up Nuns by dozens,
With this indulgence all might see,
Incog.—their Cater Cousins.
To coop up Nuns by dozens,
With this indulgence all might see,
Incog.—their Cater Cousins.
192
'Tis scandalous, said pallid Spleen,
In running this rude style on,
When Pam and the grim King of Clubs,
Are all the men—they smile on.
In running this rude style on,
When Pam and the grim King of Clubs,
Are all the men—they smile on.
Then Roseate Truth, abash'd to find
Her sex could be so cruel,
With decent mien put out the flame,
Her inmates fed with fuel.
Her sex could be so cruel,
With decent mien put out the flame,
Her inmates fed with fuel.
You all are wrong, rejoin'd the maid,
I know the Square you mean,
'Tis Purity's terrene abode,
'Tis Cynthia's Magazine.
I know the Square you mean,
'Tis Purity's terrene abode,
'Tis Cynthia's Magazine.
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