Transcribed from the early 1800's edition by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf.org.
AN ADDRESS
TO A
_WEALTHY LIBERTINE_;
OR, THE
Melancholy Effects
OF
SEDUCTION;
WITH A
LETTER
FROM AN UNFORTUNATE
Farmer's Daughter,
TO HER
_PARENTS IN NORFOLK_.
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_PRICE SIX-PENCE_.
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SOLD
By J. PARKERSON, JUN.
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Walker, Printer, near the Duke's Palace, Norwich.
An Address, &c.
Believe me, Sir; I do these lines impart
With every pang that can corrode the heart;
Bring to your mind a dismal scene late past,
And let that guilty Amour be your last.
Think of my friend that was of late so gay,
By your vile arts dishonour'd and away;
From every joy that animates this life,
The tender mother and the happy wife.
A husband's frowns, a father's burning tears,
For Stella's folly much increase their cares.
A brother mourns, in solitude forlorn,
To hear his Stella meet reproof and scorn:
In tears he cries, my sister's late disgrace
Will plant a stigma on the female race.
Those friends so late that used to Stella stray,
Now bend their courses far another way.
She mourns in privacy her honour flown,
And sighs to find illicit scenes are known.
These sorrowing truths I feelingly renew,
And know, oh guilty man! they rise from you.
Can all your wealth lost honour ever gain?
That, Sir, is scorn'd--it is the impious stain
You've brought on Stella, to the end of life,
And robs her all the comforts of a wife.
Abandon'd man you must atone for all,
Ere life is o'er on God for mercy call.
Your mind is harass'd by reflection's gale,
That oft to you its bitterness exhale:
Tempted by folly every scene pursue,
That dissipation can expose to view.
The softer pleasures that enrich the mind,
That learning dictates, from you lag behind;
Its cruel sport that bears a sov'reign sway,
To them and such like them you waste the day.
Know, Sir, that wealth an't given to us here,
To bring to infamy the British fair.
Too much, I fear, you wanton hours employ,
The needy woman daily to decoy.
Too many wantons now disgrace this Isle,
Whose bad example off the young beguile;
I hope that plans to stop them will increase,
And her that now is wretched rest in peace.
Your gen'rous family will ever gain,
Affection's tribute while we life retain:
Pure is the vine, except a leaf or two,
Soon they'll decay and be no more in view.
Disgrac'd, disown'd, to foreign lands they'll fly,
The censur'd objects of the Deity.
Wealth cannot stop the torrent of reproach,
Tho' screen'd from Britons by a gaudy coach;
Its inmate oft tho' clad in rich array,
Meets hoots and hisses as he rides away;
Till spleen, that canker of the human heart,
Makes him oft wish he could from life depart.
It is a scourge offended laws can't give,
The worst of torments whilst its object live;
Sometimes it stops our vices as they rise,
While chaster thoughts the wav'ing mind supplies.
Oft does a parent with paternal care,
His only Daughter with affection rear;
Soon as the time arrives his cares to pay,
A vile seducer takes his gem away;--
Wafts her to infamy of every kind,
Then leaves the object with a tortur'd mind.
Still does her heart with pure affection burn,
Wish to a father's roof again to turn;--
Just at that period--lucre tempts again,
And the weak vessel totters on the main:
She reels, she sinks, from chaste affections view,
To taste the draught of bitterness anew.
Some vile procuress with a demon's skill,
In a short period gains her to her will;
Till grown familiar to a harlot's life,
Quote inebriety to banish strife;
Becomes familiar to a vicious plan,
Adds to the charmers in the siren's den;
To liquor fly to banish thoughts of home,
And nightly forc'd for ways and means to roam.
Sweet health is banish'd and she finds too late,
Some dismal bridewell soon must be her fate;
All means are fled, the staff of life to gain,
To bridewell hurried with remorse and pain.
A pass is granted,--to her father sent,
Where she is foster'd from the element.
A tender parent kiss the long lost child,
Assures forgiveness tho' by grief turn'd wild.
Soon as the mind to calmer scenes invite,
He bless the hour that brought his lost to sight.
A scene like this came lately to my ear,
I know the parent and his worth revere.
Frequent do parents cause the great distress,
That on their daughters unexpected press.
The mother drains her pockets very low,
That Miss may make a gaudy flippant show;
To country balls she often bends her way,
And is allowed with cards and dice to play.
View but the manners of the modern belle,
And see if they don't levity foretell:
The bosom oft appears too much in view,
Sweet modesty is forc'd to bid adieu:
To her chaste dictates she cannot attend,
Indeed they do not deem her as a friend.
Mark how they roll their lively eyes about,
Just like her Ladyship when at a rout.
A piece of music next the parlour grace,
While vanity is striding on apace:
So swift she flies that almost time outrun;
By her manoeuvres oft the fair's undone;
Miss cannot look on any but a squire,
Or dress'd up coxcombs, only them admire;
An honest farmer's son they call a clown,
Likes none but puppies living in a town;
Such creatures, soon as wedded, only strive
How to jog on and keep the game alive:
Careless who suffers if they can but live,
Wanting still more than prudent parents give;
All wishes gratified,--in hopes that Miss
Will soon enjoy the matrimonial bliss.
A prudent living man is known to say,
For me such bawbles dress too fine and gay;
She'd squander money much against my will,
In paying milliner's enormous bill.
Such conduct in a parent may be wise,
Where good estates can all his wants supplies;
The ill effects that rise from such a plan,
Is were stern poverty assails the man.
Parents there are who often live this way,
Although two shillings in the pound can't pay.
Soon as their creditors do sharply press,
The lovely maidens feel extreme distress;
No lover then to sooth the drooping eye,
When poverty is seen from them they fly:
Unfit to baffle with the frowns of life,
And greatly more so for to be a wife.
Then does the wealthy Libertine succeed,
Furnish their pockets known to be in need;
Takes Miss from home to grace a chaise and pair,
While the unhappy parents nurse despair.
A LETTER FROM
_Miss Maria C***_, _to her Parents at_
* * * * *
My pen I take, my wretched fate to state,
Pardon, oh pardon, tho' a vile ingrate;
Your daughter late so innocent and gay,
Was by a vile seducer led astray
From those chase precepts by you taught to know,
That he who sets above knows all below;
Either on earth or in the heavenly skies,
Each substance falls or as he wishes rise.
I fell a victim to unchaste desires,
And feel those sorrows vengeance now requires,
After I left a parent's house and home,
Induced with wicked Henry to roam;
That sweet society my bosom knew,
From me that instant bade a long adieu.
Time, I much fear, will not that balm restore;
Its fled from me and will return no more.
I know that sweet compassion fills your mind,
And to forgiveness ever was inclin'd;
Take then your daughter to your arms again,
And she from latent vices will abstain.
With pious thoughts she'll pass the day away,
Till stern reproof is banish'd far away;
Too well I know that censure will appear,
In every mansion when Maria's there;
Soon as the vengeance of her sting is cast,
The scoffers arrogance no longer last;
Too true I know that woes I'm doom'd to bear,
The unfeeling frown the virgin's haughty sneer;
In time they'll vanish when its known I rove,
In virtue's path with innocence and love.
My prayers I'll offer to the throne on high,
And live as ordered by the Deity.
Lately I met my Mother's upper maid,
To ask her questions I was much afraid;
Yet ere I bade the honest girl adieu,
Nature compell'd me to inquire of you:
She said my mother fell a prey to grief,
And that no medicine could give relief;
In stating this a tear escaped her eye.
Return she cried, then heaved a tender sigh:
I will return and ere her spirits fled,
Press my lov'd mother on her couch or bed.
For pity's sake write me a line to say,
If I to you may speedy bend my way;
This boon is all I ask and now I crave,
A parent's blessing ere I meet the grave.
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To the Memory of
MR. PAGE,
LATE OF
_PULHAM MARKET_.
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My pen but faintly can declare,
The virtues of his mind;
Well he deserves the friendly tear,
From those he leaves behind.
Dissimulation could not rest
A moment on his face,
No wicked thoughts annoy'd his breast,
Nor envy found a place.
To friends and neighbours was sincere,
He cheerful pass'd the day;
His memory many will revere,
Till they are call'd away.
Enough I cannot say of him,
The reason's very plain;
But few were so devoid of sin,
No better here remain.
Quite well he knew the ways of life,
Performed one noble plan,
Avoiding things that brought or strife,
And justice did to man.
His conversation sweetly pure,
For prudence led the way;
None but those he could endure,
Who would her strains obey.
Once on a time by ills oppress'd,
I asked his friendly aid;
He lull'd my anxious mind to rest,
And sorrow quick dismayed.
At Pulham market, left behind,
Those friends he did revere;
To every stranger they are kind
To friendship are sincere.
No party spirit there can dwell,
A day within that place;
They bid her give a long farewell,
Nor dare to show her face.
The humble tradesman can retire,
If pleasure leads his mind;
Beside the wealthy farmer's fire,
And gain attention kind.
The labouring poor will seldom part,
From those that him employ;
Good usage animates the heart,
And bitter thoughts destroy.
In the gay village all around,
A little cot you'll find,
Behind it is the garden ground,
To please the tenants' mind.
Seldom is rais'd the tasker's cot,
Not often turn'd away;
No murmuring on his master's spot,
He cheerful him obey.
The farmer's wife the poor supply,
With barm and milk beside,
To do them good each other vie,
To serve them is their pride.
The humble and the wealthy sing
To Albion's long success;
Good news for England pleasure bring,
And adverse gales distress.
Again on Page my humble strains,
With melancholy dwell;
To tell the grief and heart felt pains,
To bid a long farewell.
It's gratitude that urge the pen,
It's friendship leads the way;
To speak the virtues of a man,
That death has call'd away.
Oh may his spirit ever rest,
Beside the God of all,
And ever number'd with the blest,
Till he shall judge us all.
Death brought no terrors to his heart,
For resignation staid,
Till from his life he should depart,
And lent her cheering aid.
Oh God he cried I've no pretence,
To think election sure;
Cleanse, cleanse my soul, ere I go hence
And join me with the pure.
POLITICAL SURGEON.
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