Classic Poem

Tully, the queen of beauty's boast,
Through all America the toast,
Does, that her face more eyes may catch,
Reform it with a negro-patch.
Venus for ever does delight
In thickest shade, and ebon night.
Does not Tom Serjeant try to make
His person passant dressed in black?
Observe the coal of purest jet
The fiercest flame does still beget.
As the most cloudy mysteries
The mussulmans devoutest prize,
So smartest beaux and wits adore
The gloomy grace of Molly Moor.
The proudest snowy forms at last
Must in a sable pall be dressed:
E'en Dolly Dowglass' self must go
Down to the negro-shades below;
Into the pitchy kingdom, where
This raven lass shall queen appear;
And sit on Proserpina's throne,
When she is up to Ceres gone.