Classic Poem

No more the quizzish Bewley's destin'd wife,
And yet the Votary of modish life;
In Fashion's rounds again my fame to seek,
In Air an Amazon, in dress a Greek,
I come, a Heroine, with destructive aim,
To beat yon Covert for the Critic Game;
The Season's late; but Birds of prey none fear
To shoot without a licence — all the Year:
Behold me then — piece levell'd with my eye,
Prepar'd at flocks of Critics to let fly —
Yet stay — for in a random shot, who knows
But the same blow may wound both friends and foes.
Suppose, then, ere I take a hostile station,
I try the system — of conciliation;
And still, tho' folly may the truth disguise,
Woman's best weapons are her tongue and eyes.
First, that gaunt Critic clad in Iron Grey,
Who seems to frown perdition on our Play,
Would he but smile! — do, Ma'am, make him look up,
Oh, ho! he's harmless — but in haste to sup.
The Spark above, just come with eager stride,
Bespurr'd — bebooted — express from Cheapside;
His alter'd eye bodes us no hostile fit,
A Maiden Aunt has spy'd him from the Pit;
In vain you shirk your damsel, and look shy,
Friend Tom, you'll have a lecture by and by.
What says that Beau? a Crop — but don't deride it,
His three-cock't hat is big enough to hide it;
Tho' nightly here — 'tis not the Play's his hobby,
He only criticizes in the Lobby.
Ye martial youths, who decorate our rows,
Who menace nothing but your Country's foes;
No Female vainly can your suffrage crave,
You must be merciful, because you're brave —
And last, and loudest, you, my friends above,
Some by our Play led here, and some by love;
Your honest fronts — seek not behind to hide,
I see you all — your Sweethearts by your side,
No low'ring Critic[-]brows 'mongst you I find,
But John at Betty smirks, and looks so kind:
Don't, Betty, cheer him with one smile to-night,
'Till he applaud our Play with all his might.
That jolly Tar, by Kate from Rotherhithe brought —
With Bard or Critic ne'er disturbs his thought,
He only comes to make the Gallery ring
With " Rule, Brittania, " and " God save the King " ;
Oh! may those patriot strains long echo here,
The sweetest music to a British ear.
Yet, while on well known kindness I presume,
Our Authoress, trembling, waits from you her doom.