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Did it form you like angels and send you below
To prophecy peace—and bid charity flow!
And have you thus left your primeval state,
And wandred so widely—so strangely of late?
Alas! the sad cause I too plainly can see—
These evils have all come upon you by tea!
Cursed weed, that can make our fair spirits resign
The character mild of their mission divine;
That can blot from their bosoms that tenderness true,
Which from female to female for ever is due!
O! how nice is the texture—how fragile the frame
Of that delicate blossom, a female's fair fame!
'Tis the sensitive plant, it secoils from the breath;
And shrinks from the touch as if pregnant with death,
How often, how often, has inocence sigh’d.
Has beauty been reft of its honour—its pride.
Has virtue, though pure as angel light,
