XIII.

I like your chocolate, good Mistress Fry! 
I like your cookery in every way;
I like your shrove-tide service and supply;
I like to hear your sweet Pandeans play;
I like the pity in your full-brimm’d eye;
I like your carriage, and your silken gray,
Your dove-like habits, and your silent preaching;
But I don’t like your Newgatory teaching.

XIV.

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!

XV.

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!

XVI.

Teach Lady Barrymore, if, teaching, you
That peerless Peeress can absolve from dolor;
Teach her it is not virtue to pursue
Ruin of blue, or any other color;
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.

XVII.

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!

XVIII.

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!

XIX.

In brief,—­Oh teach the child its moral rote, Not in the way from which ’twill not depart,—­ But out—­out—­out!  Oh, bid it walk remote!  And if the skies are clos’d against the smart, Ev’n let him wear the single-breasted coat, For that ensureth singleness of heart.—­ Do what you will, his every want supply, Keep him—­but out of Newgate, Mrs. Fry!