and they stand in
The Evil presence? You and I know, then,
How all the party colors will begin
To part--the _Pit_tite hues will sadden there,
Whereas the _Foxite_ shades will all show fair!

VI.

Witness their goodly labors one by one!
_Russet_ makes garments for the needy poor--
_Dove-color_ 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!

VII.

Well! Heaven forbid that I should discommend
The gratis, charitable, jail-endeavor!
When all persuasions in your praises blend--
The Methodist's creed and cry are, _Fry_ forever!
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?

VIII.

Top 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!

IX.

O save the vulgar soul before it's spoil'd!
Set up your mounted sign _without_ the gate--
And there inform the mind before 'tis soil'd!
'Tis sorry writing on a greasy slate!
Nay, if you would not have your labors foil'd,
Take it _inclining_ tow'rds a virtuous state,
Not prostrate and laid flat--else, woman meek!
The _upright_ pencil will but hop and shriek!

X.

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!

XI.

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, thro' the immoral eye
Of blunt Whitechapel natures, Mrs. Fry!

XII.

In vain you teach them baby-work within:
'Tis but a clumsy botch