They’re all the devil’s liveries, that men And women wear in servitude to sin-- But how will they come off; poor motleys, when Sin’s wages are paid down, and they stand in The Evil presence? You and I know, then How all the party colours will begin To part--the _Pit_tite hues will sadden there, Whereas the _Fox_ite shades will all show fair! Witness their goodly labours one by one! _Russet_ makes garments for the needy poor-- _Dove-colour_ preaches love to all--and _dun_ Calls every day at Charity’s street-door-- _Brown_ studies scripture, and bids woman shun All gaudy furnishing--_olive_ doth pour Oil into wounds: and _drab_ and _slate_ supply Scholar and book in Newgate, Mrs. Fry! Well! Heaven forbid that I should discommend The gratis, charitable, jail-endeavour! When all persuasions in your praises blend-- The Methodist’s creed and cry are, _Fry_ for ever! No--I will be your friend--and, like a friend, Point out your very worst defect--Nay, never Start at that word!--But I _must_ ask you why You keep your school _in_ Newgate, Mrs. Fry? Too well I know the price our mother Eve Paid for _her_ schooling: but must all her daughters Commit a petty larceny, and thieve-- Pay down a crime for “_entrance_” to your “_quarters_?” Your classes may increase, but I must grieve Over your pupils at their bread-and-waters! Oh, tho’ it cost you rent--(and rooms run high!) Keep your school _out_ of Newgate, Mrs. Fry! O save the vulgar soul before it’s spoiled! Set up your mounted sign _without_ the gate-- And there inform the mind before ’tis soiled! ’Tis sorry writing on a greasy slate! Nay, if you would not have your labours foiled, Take it _inclining_ tow’rds a virtuous state, Not prostrate and laid flat--else, woman meek! The _upright_ pencil will but hop and shriek! Ah, who can tell how hard it is to drain The evil spirit from the heart it preys in,-- To bring sobriety to life again, Choked with the vile Anacreontic raisin,-- To wash Black Betty when her black’s ingrain,-- To stick a moral lacquer on Moll Brazen, Of Suky Tawdry’s habits to deprive her; To tame the wild-fowl-ways of Jenny Diver! Ah, who can tell how hard it is to teach Miss Nancy Dawson on her bed of straw-- To make Long Sal sew up the endless breach She made in manners--to write heaven’s own law On hearts of granite.--Nay, how hard to preach, In cells, that are not memory’s--to draw The moral thread, through the immoral eye Of blunt Whitechapel natures, Mrs. Fry!