To tell you truths you will not take as true,
Because they are so ;—a male Mrs. Fry, (1)
With a soft besom will I sweep your halls,
And brush a web or two from off the walls.

LXXXV.

Oh Mrs. Fry! Why go to Newgate? Why
Preach to poor rogues? And wherefore not begin
With Carlton, or with other houses? Try
Your hand at harden'd and imperial sin.
To mend the people's an absurdity,

A jargon, a mere philanthropic din,
Unless you make their betters better:-Fy!
I thought you had more religion, Mrs. Fry.

LXXXVI.

Teach them the decencies of good threescore;

Cure them of tours, hussar and highland dresses; Tell them that youth once gone returns no more,

That hired huzzas redeem no land's distresses; Tell them Sir William Curtis (2) is a bore,

Too dull even for the dullest of excesses,
The witless Falstaff of a hoary Hal,
A fool whose bells have ceased to ring at all.

LXXXVII.

Tell them, though it may be perhaps too late
On life's worn confine, jaded, bloated, sated,

To set up vain pretences of being great,

'Tis not so to be good; and be it stated,

(1) [The Quaker lady, whose benevolent exertions have effected so great a change in the condition of the female prisoners in Newgate.] (2) [This worthy alderman died in 1829.]

The worthiest kings have ever loved least state;

And tell them

-But you won't, and I have prated

Just now enough; but by and by I'll prattle

Like Roland's horn (1) in Roncesvalles' battle.

(1)

["O for a blast of that dread horn,

On Fontarabian echoes borne,

That to King Charles did come,
When Rowland brave, and Olivier,
And every paladin and peer,

On Roncesvalles died."- Marmion.]

END OF THE SIXTEENTH VOLUME.

LONDON:

Printed by A. & R. Spottiswoode, New-Street-Square.