In vain you teach them baby-work within: ’Tis but a clumsy botchery of crime; ’Tis but a tedious darning of old sin-- Come out yourself, and stitch up souls in time-- It is too late for scouring to begin When virtue’s ravelled out, when all the prime Is worn away, and nothing sound remains; You’ll fret the fabric out before the stains! I like your chocolate, good Mrs. Fry! I like your cookery in every way; I like your shrove-tide service and supply; [Illustration: “A CHILD’S _call_ TO BE DISPOSED OF.”] [Illustration: “TO LADIES’ EYES A ROUND, BOYS!”] I like to hear your sweet _Pandeans_ play; I like the pity in your full-brimmed eye; I like your carriage, and your silken grey, Your dove-like habits, and your silent preaching; But I don’t like your Newgatory teaching. Come out of Newgate, Mrs. Fry! Repair Abroad, and find your pupils in the streets. O, come abroad into the wholesome air, And take your moral place, before Sin seats Her wicked self in the Professor’s chair. Suppose some morals raw! the true receipt’s To dress them in the pan, but do not try To cook them in the fire, good Mrs. Fry! Put on your decent bonnet, and come out! Good lack! the ancients did not set up schools In jail--but at the _Porch_! hinting, no doubt, That Vice should have a lesson in the rules Before ’twas whipt by law.--O come about, Good Mrs. Fry! and set up forms and stools All down the Old Bailey, and thro’ Newgate-street, But not in Mr. Wontner’s proper seat! Teach Lady Barrymore, if, teaching, you That peerless Peeress can absolve from dolour; Teach her it is not virtue to pursue Ruin of blue, or any other colour; Teach her it is not Virtue’s crown to rue, Month after month, the unpaid drunken dollar; Teach her that “flooring Charleys” is a game Unworthy one that bears a Christian name. O come and teach our children--that ar’n’t _ours_-- That heaven’s straight pathway is a narrow way, Not Broad St. Giles’s, where fierce Sin devours Children, like Time--or rather they both prey On youth together--meanwhile Newgate low’rs Ev’n like a black cloud at the close of day, To shut them out from any more blue sky: Think of these hopeless wretches, Mrs. Fry! You are not nice--go into their retreats, And make them Quakers, if you will.--’Twere best They wore straight collars, and their shirts sans _pleats_; That they had hats _with_ brims,--that they were drest In garbs without _lappels_--than shame the streets With so much raggedness.--You may invest Much cash this way--but it will cost its price, To give a good, round, real _cheque_ to Vice!