An Address to a Wealthy Libertine or, the Melancholy Effects of Seduction; with a Letter from an Unfortunate Farmer's Daughter, to her Parents in Norfolk   By: James Parkerson

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Believe me, Sir; I do these lines impart With every pang that can corrode the heart; Bring to your mind a dismal scene late past, And let that guilty Amour be your last. Think of my friend that was of late so gay, By your vile arts dishonour’d and away; From every joy that animates this life, The tender mother and the happy wife. A husband’s frowns, a father’s burning tears, For Stella’s folly much increase their cares. A brother mourns, in solitude forlorn, To hear his Stella meet reproof and scorn: In tears he cries, my sister’s late disgrace Will plant a stigma on the female race. Those friends so late that used to Stella stray, Now bend their courses far another way. She mourns in privacy her honour flown, And sighs to find illicit scenes are known. These sorrowing truths I feelingly renew, And know, oh guilty man! they rise from you. Can all your wealth lost honour ever gain? That, Sir, is scorn’d—it is the impious stain You’ve brought on Stella, to the end of life, And robs her all the comforts of a wife. Abandon’d man you must atone for all, Ere life is o’er on God for mercy call. Your mind is harass’d by reflection’s gale, That oft to you its bitterness exhale: Tempted by folly every scene pursue, That dissipation can expose to view. The softer pleasures that enrich the mind, That learning dictates, from you lag behind; Its cruel sport that bears a sov’reign sway, To them and such like them you waste the day. Know, Sir, that wealth an’t given to us here, To bring to infamy the British fair. Too much, I fear, you wanton hours employ, The needy woman daily to decoy. Too many wantons now disgrace this Isle, Whose bad example off the young beguile; I hope that plans to stop them will increase, And her that now is wretched rest in peace. Your gen’rous family will ever gain, Affection’s tribute while we life retain: Pure is the vine, except a leaf or two, Soon they’ll decay and be no more in view. Disgrac’d, disown’d, to foreign lands they’ll fly, The censur’d objects of the Deity. Wealth cannot stop the torrent of reproach, Tho’ screen’d from Britons by a gaudy coach; Its inmate oft tho’ clad in rich array, Meets hoots and hisses as he rides away; Till spleen, that canker of the human heart, Makes him oft wish he could from life depart. It is a scourge offended laws can’t give, The worst of torments whilst its object live; Sometimes it stops our vices as they rise, While chaster thoughts the wav’ing mind supplies. Oft does a parent with paternal care, His only Daughter with affection rear; Soon as the time arrives his cares to pay, A vile seducer takes his gem away;— Wafts her to infamy of every kind, Then leaves the object with a tortur’d mind... Continue reading book >>