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A Clownish Poem on the Shunamite,
A sinner call'd to be the Lord's delight;
By the despised William Huntington,
Both known and trusted now in Paddington.
To Mistress Sangster, now at number eight,
'Tis by the new St. Luke's that's built of late,
At Old Street end you'll find the dame's abode,
In Winkworth's Buildings, on the City Road.
I HOPE, dear madam, you will not be vex'd,
Because you find your name to this affix'd;
'Tis sent by way of grateful recompence,
But not design'd to give the least offence.
I trust your name is in the book of life;
Nor have I us'd it here to gender strife:
Take not this freedom in the least unkind,
The poem's sent to entertain your mind.
The subject matter is a work of grace,
Which on a saint in days of old took place;
The sex, a woman, and her stature great;
And to her sex these lines I dedicate.
PREMISED ENQUIRY, AND CAUTION.
BUT if you ask what I might have in view,
And why I send this poem first to you;
Or how I came to frame these whims of mine,
And puzzle you, from first to last, with rhyme;
Some people's heads are like a hive of bees,
Whose brood sent forth, the women ring to please.
When Jesus shines, the heart with love gets warm,
"Tis then the head with thoughts begins to swarm.
Methinks, you prize an old prolific hive,
And wish their young may both increase and thrive;
You'd have the stocks be neither weak nor few,
But would not wish a swarm rung down to you.
A lion slain was once a hive for bees,
Against his ribs they built their cells with ease;
The mighty Saint, that slew the brute in ire,
Soon after found an entertainment there.
That beast proclaims my former state of mind,
In which I roar'd against an arm Divine;
God slew the brute, and sent the honey too,
Or else this swarm had never fled to you.
'Tis by your means this work is brought about, You shook the stand, and then the swarm flew out; At this my fault you must in love connive,
And mind in future how you move the hive.