MARIA,
The Unfortunate Fair.

Printed and fold by J. Davenport, 6, Georges-court,
St. Johns-lane, West Smithfield, London.

MARIA, was handsome, remarkably fair,
No girl in the school could with her compare;
Accomplished in manners, her temper was mild,
She was to such parents on'ly a dear child,
Till a treacherous captain had stole her away,
As a wolf would a lamb, to make her his prey;
Soon after deluded, an' fatal to tell,
He was order'd to sea, and then bade her farewell.
Bath'd by Prudence, and doom'd now to prove,
Neglected by parents, their friendship and love;
In winter, at midnight, to trudge for relief,
Almost broken-hearted, attended by grief;
To thin ev'ry ruffian, alas! but in vain,
She meets him that's injur'd, not knowing his pain;
See the victim bleedin', while Fare seems to frown,
None chears with compassion—she's a girl of the town.
Reflect on upbraiding, while guilt urges her tears,
And bids her look back to her happier years,
Who tenderly felt for her own wretched self,
Such pains, not her own, would her bottom perplex;
But now she's in fattin' at some beggar door,
To support the old dowd is to act the cove where;
While blooming and healthful, cares'd by the dame,
Well known round the Garden, a girl of great fame,
In the height of her splendor, her friend is away,
By all her acquaintance this girl was below'd;
To help the afflicted under poverty's ash,
From her lovers would wheedle a relevant in cash,
Not thinking that Fortune would turn round the wheel
to check her career, to justice appeal:
But as riot and whoredom don't unpunish'd go,
The girl of great fame is condemned to her woe.
The old cruel beldam, with galling abuse,
Disturting her friendship, now unfit for use,
To give her small comfort this wrench does refuse,
And oblig'd her to part with her fa'tins and clo'hes;
Her limbs are expos'd thro' a garment worn bare,
Once matchles for beauty, but now for detair,
Nor far asthro' her years, she blunder'd thro' time,
Like a flow'ry just blown, she's cut off in her prime.
For wit and good humur, to toast over the glafs,
To this lovely creature—this favourite lafs;
She wore no complexion of art, red or pale,
By nature look'd blithe, till this internal fail:
Her spirits and beauty toge her decay'd,
In a blanket, her hieplefs frame is convey'd
to a workhouse, quite helpless, death clo'es her eyes,
There resigns her last breath, and in agony dies.