Dublin, Nov. 30, 1714.

  Mr. SPECTATOR,

’You lately recommended to your Female Readers, the good old Custom of their Grandmothers, who used to lay out a great Part of their Time in Needle-work:  I entirely agree with you in your Sentiments, and think it would not be of less Advantage to themselves, and their Posterity, than to the Reputation of many of their good Neighbours, if they past many of those Hours in this innocent Entertainment, which are lost at the Tea-Table.  I would, however, humbly offer to your Consideration, the Case of the Poetical Ladies; who, though they may be willing to take any Advice given them by the SPECTATOR, yet can’t so easily quit their Pen and Ink, as you may imagine.  Pray allow them, at least now and then, to indulge themselves in other Amusements of Fancy, when they are tired with stooping to their Tapestry.  There is a very particular kind of Work, which of late several Ladies here in our Kingdom are very fond of, which seems very well adapted to a Poetical Genius:  It is the making of Grotto’s.  I know a Lady who has a very Beautiful one, composed by her self, nor is there one Shell in it not stuck up by her own Hands.  I here send you a Poem to the fair Architect, which I would not offer to herself, till I knew whether this Method of a Lady’s passing her Time were approved of by the British SPECTATOR, which, with the Poem, I submit to your Censure, who am,

  Your Constant Reader, and Humble Servant,
  A.B.

    To Mrs.—­on her Grotto.

    A_ Grotto so compleat, with such Design,
    What Hands, Calypso, cou’d have form’d but Thine? 
    Each chequer’d Pebble, and each shining Shell,
    So well proportion’d, and dispos’d so well,
    Surprizing Lustre from thy Thought receive,
    Assuming Beauties more than Nature gave. 
    To Her their various Shapes, and glossy Hue,
    Their curious Symmetry they owe to You. 
    Not fam’d Amphion’s Lute,—­whose powerful Call
    Made Willing Stones dance to the Theban Wall,
    In more harmonious Ranks cou’d make them fall. 
    Not Ev’ning Cloud a brighter Arch can show,
    Nor richer Colours paint the heav’nly Bow.

    Where can unpolished Nature boast a Piece,
    In all her Mossie Cells exact as This? 
    At the gay parti-color’d Scene—­we start,
    For Chance too regular, too rude for Art,

    Charmed with the sight, my ravish’d Breast is fir’d
    With Hints like those which ancient Bards inspir’d;
    All the feign’d Tales by Superstition told,
    All the bright Train of fabled Nymphs of Old,
    Th’ enthusiastick Muse believes are true,
    Thinks the Spot sacred, and its Genius You. 
    Lost in wild Rapture, wou’d she fain disclose,
    How by degrees the pleasing Wonder rose: 
    Industrious in a faithful Verse to trace
    The various Beauties of the lovely Place;
    And while she keeps the glowing Work in View,
    Thro’ ev’ry Maze thy Artful Hand pursue.