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Then pray make a ballad about her;
We know you have wit if you'd show it,
Then don't be asham'd,
You can never be blam'd, For a prophet is often a poet.
But why don't you make one yourself, then? I suppose I by you shall be told, Sir:
This beautiful piece,
Alas, is my niece; And besides, she's but five years old, Sir.
But tho', my dear friend, she's no older,
In her face it may plainly be seen, Sir,
That this angel at five,
Will, if she's alive,
Be a goddess at fifteen, Sir.
YE Muses all, and pitying virgins, come
And pour your tears on poor Calista's tomb.
In the cold mansions of the silent grave,
May her remains a sanctuary have
From the malignant blasts of sland'rous tongues,
Who have pursu'd her name with cruel wrongs;
Catherina Tatton, daughter of Lieutenant-general Tatton, and wife of Edward, thirteenth Lord Abergavenny; he dying in 1724, in the 19th year of his age, his wife re-married, in 1725, William, fourteenth Lord Abergavenny, his successor, she dying 4th of December, 1729, in childbed, in less than one month after the detection of a criminal correspondence with Richard Lyddel, Esq. against whom Lord A. brought an action for damages, and recovered tive thousand pounds.
May all her faults for ever be forgot,
And let not calumny her mem'ry blot.
Unhappy nymph! let none her crime upbraid,
By love and too much gentleness betray'd;
And, oh! for ever may his name be curst,
Of spotted villains be he rank'd the first,
Who, with a base revenge and malice fir’d,
Fierce jealousy in her stern Lord inspir’d.
Inhuman wretch! Sure now thy woes begin,
And thou already hast thy hell within.
While pitying Heaven, with mercy, sees her fate,
And kindly takes her to a happier state,
Pardons the fault she so sincerely mournd,
And joys to see a penitent return'd.
But, oh! ye railers, ye abandon'd few,
How ill your Master's precepts ye pursue:
Reflect, when God himself was here below,
What mercy he did to a sinner show, ,
And bade the guiltless only throw a stone;
Straight all retir’d, and left her there alone:
With majesty he rais'd his awful head,
And mildly to the tender creature said,
Again thy life and freedom I restore; “ Now, go thy way, and look thou sin no more.” Th’accusing Jews were juster far than you, By conscience self-condemn’d, they allwithdrew; But amongst those who mangle thus her fame, How many's crimes, tho’not their fates the same ! Henceforth for ever cease her name to tax, Nor with foul calumny abuse her sex.
BY CHARLES, DUKE OF DORSET.
YOUNG, thoughtless, gay, unfortunately fair,
Her pride to please, and pleasure all her care;
With too much kindness and too little art,
Prone to indulge the dictates of the heart;
Flatter'd by all, solicited, admir'd,
By women envied, and by men desir’d:
At once from full prosperity she's torn,
By friends deserted, of defence forlorn,
Expos’d to talk, to insults, want, and scorn;
By every idle tongue her story told,
The novel of the young, the lecture of the old ;
But let the scoffer or the prude relate,
With rigour's utmost force her hapless fate;
Good nature still to soft compassion wrought,
Shall weep her ruin, while it owns her fault.