RECITATIVE _for the celebrated Female Singer from Manchester. Symphony of Flutes--pianissimo._
Now in cotton robe array'd, Poor Manufacture, tax-lamenting maid, Thy story heard by her devoted wheel, Each busy-sounding spindle hush'd--
FUGUE. Now, dreading Irish rape, Quick shifting voice and shape--
DEEP BASS, _from Birmingham._ With visage hard, and furnace flush'd, And black-hair'd chest, and nerve of steel, The sex-chang'd listner stood In surly pensive mood.
AIR, _accompanied with double Bassoons, &c._ While the promise-maker spoke The anvil miss'd the wonted stroke; In air suspended hammers hung, While _Pitt_'s own frauds came mended from that tongue.
PART OF CHORUS REPEATED. Renown'd Divine, &c.
AIR. Sooth'd with the sound the Priest grew vain, And all his tales told o'er again, And added hundreds more; By turns to this, or that, or both, He gave the sanction of an oath, And then the whole forswore. "Truth," he sung, "was toil and trouble, Honour but an empty bubble"-- _Glo'ster_'s aged--_London_ dying-- Poor, too poor, is simple lying! If the lawn be worth thy wearing, Win, oh! win it, by thy swearing!
FULL CHORUS REPEATED. Grand deluder! arch-impostor, &c.[7]
RECITATIVE _accompanied_. Enough the parents praise--see of Deceit The fairer progeny ascends! _Evasion_, nymph of agile feet, With half-veil'd face; _Profession_, whispering accents sweet And many a kindred _Fraud_ attends; Mutely dealing courtly wiles, Fav'ring nods, and hope-fraught smiles, A fond, amusive, tutelary race, That guard the home-pledg'd faith of Kings-- Or flitting, light, on paper wings; Speed Eastern guile across this earthly ball, And waft it back from _Windsor_ to _Bengal_. But chiefly thee I woo, of changeful eye, In courts y'clept _Duplicity!_ Thy fond looks on mine imprinting, Vulgar mortals call it squinting-- Baby, of Art and Int'rest bred, } Whom, stealing to the back-stairs head } in fondling arms--with cautious tread, } [8]Wrinkle-twinkle _Jenky_ bore, To the baize-lin'd closet door.
AIR. Sweet nymph, that liv'st unseen Within that lov'd recess-- Save when the Closet Councils press, And junto's speak the thing they mean; Tell me, ever-busy power, Where shall I trace thee in that vacant hour? Art thou content, in the sequester'd grove, To play with hearts and vows of love! Or emulous of prouder sway, Dost thou to list'ning Senates take thy way? Thy presence let me still enjoy, With _Rose_, and the lie-loving boy.