THE
CYPRIAN OF ST. STEPHEN'S,
OR,
Princely Protection
ILLUSTRATED;
IN A
POETICAL FLIGHT
TO
The Pierian Spring:

BY
SAM SATIRICUS.

Dux Fæmina Facti.

BATH;

Printed and Sold by John Browne, (Bath-Guide Office, 6, Bridge-Street)
Sold also by Mr. Walker, Paternoster-Row, London; Mr. Barry, Bristol; and all other
Booksellers.

1809.

Barnard St., Bristol.

M. Mary Ann Clarke.

Painted from the Life by M. G. A. Keman, Bond Street, London.

THE CYPRIAN.

7

That Corri who prov'd far from ninny,
Vow'd she was oft' in want of guinea.
Still notwithstanding this confession
Which merely prov'd jocose digression;
To Mexico lets bid adieu,
And likewise to renown'd Peru;
To wealth acquir'd by honest trading,
To industry; vile and degrading;
Since now great folks much more may gain,
By keeping lady in their train,
(Hold; I forgot; the word's—infection!
I meant not keeping but protection.)
But to my tale; for ancient rules
Have now made way for modern schools.
Thus ev'ry hackney'd mode of old
Which brought its vot'ry piles of gold,
Must yield to dames; who mix love's caudle
With other sweets—so says friend Wardle.
He that on keen enquiry bent
Hath rous'd the House of Parliament,
Rak'd witnesses from ev'ry quarter,
To clap a P—e, in boiling water;
In short, whose toils have but one end,
To prove himself the people's friend;
And either stamp guilt, by this stir,
Or clear an injur'd character.

B 2

8

THE CYPRIAN.

But that our great men sometimes err
Methinks with truth I may aver;
For none that had in noddle brains,
Would surely be at so much pains,
To prove himself an arrant ass,
In dangling after Cyprian Lass:

But to my proof, for facts are fetters
None dare deny :—So now for letters :
Letters; that must at once evince,
The Child in person—of Man Prince.

So if some R-y-l scrip you'll hear :

My dearest, dearest, dearest Dear;

My pretty, pretty, pretty Dove;

My Darling, Darling, Angel, Love;

With thanks by millions and by millions :

Far better had he said NONILLIONS :

I feel sore vex'd, and long my face—is;

You did not go to Lewe's Races;

And as for News; what news can yield:

Dull family of Chesterfield?

The play we went to see; none better,

Ee'r pass'd off here :—As for your Letter,

O! Meara's Doctor gave it me.

Who wants to preach, 'fore ROYALTY ;

Which—to oblige him being prone,

I'll strive :—So your's and your's alone;

My dearest, sweetest, dearest Chick;

Says your fond Lover FREDERICK.

12

THE CYPRIAN.

HEBE,
OR
THE CUP-BEARER OF THE GODS,
A NEW BALLAD.

In nova fert animus mutatus dicere formas.

HEBE who wore the blooming glow,
If true, speaks many a ballad;
Was daughter of the great Juno;
Begot whilst eating sallad:
A sallad made of lettuce rare,
Season'd, with cayenne too;
For though the brat prov'd wond'rous fair,
She prov'd a mighty shrew.

Now being bearer of that cup,
From which their Godships booz'd;
'Tis thought she oft would take a sup,
Good things she ne'er refus'd;
So as it happ'd one day she thus,
Half tippy serv'd each God;
When falling :—Jove made mighty fuss
She fell so wond'rous odd.

Dram. & Trans. by C. C. M.

Fol. P. 11, w. 11 by E. W. Whiting, in "Parnassus."

Mrs. M. A. CLARKE.

PORTRAIT OF A LADY

DRAWN FROM THE LIFE, ETCHED AND PUBLISHED BY ADAM BUCK, 19, FRITH STREET, SOHO

THE CYPRIAN.

Tis said indeed so strange she fell,
To cause them vast affright;
She did display, what I shan't tell,
To ev'ry wondering sight.
So Jove insens'd bade Ganymedes,
Thenceforth the Goblet tender;
While she, her mother's Peacock steeds
Did curry :—vile offender.

So Hebe thus, as ancients swear,
Made Homer's gods look bluff;
'Twas pity all saw bottom bare;
One at a time's enough.
But she would not let talents sleep,
So 'gan the game in youth,
That all, who wish'd might have a peep;
And many vouch the truth.

Well after this it was her lot,
With *Hercules* to wed;
An husband thus the baggage got,
And snooz'd in Honour's bed.
But soon she left poor spouse so stout,
To flaunt upon the Town;
And after suff'ring many a lout,
She gain'd one of renown.

C

14

THE CYPRIAN.

'Tis said anew she could inspire,
In age youth's genial glow;
But if this spark e'er lack'd such fire
I'm sure I do not know.
Yet one sad fact, I'll keep in view
She made such use of favour,
As to impound his Honour too;
While of his heart Enslaver.

Such were the ditties of my fair,
That oft dispell'd the Hero's care;
Whilst all the sense that stor'd his brain,
Was drown'd in oceans of *Champaine*.
Wou'd I the ladies tongue's had heard,
There should not have escap'd one word:
Or listed to the martial tattle,
Of City storm'd, or direful battle;
Where was enacted desp'rate work,
As at the Seige of fam'd *Dunkirk*.
Then had I heard of Alexanders,
Pompeys, Cæsars,—Salamanders;
Of discipline and war's fell trade,
Upon *Saint James's*, smooth parade;
In fine, it had to me prov'd treat,
Better than *Gin*, Imported neat;

THE CYPRIAN.

A treat, from which I had not shrunk,
But by retail; made thousands drunk.
Yet soft, who was attendant then ?
A footman, now 'mongst Martial men;
So who would not for Arms prove starter,
When Napkin's Knight.—the great Sam Carter
With mighty men, his wine will quaff,
Now ranking Officer on staff.
But change like this, our Army's rich—in,
Cockades and swords spring from the kitchen.
Yet if still press'd relate I can

Some other facts :—There's Donavan,
Who with some little secrets fraught,
Has long had pay; for doing naught.
Then we've another, just as good,
Quill-driving Clerk for great Greenwood;
Who at the desk, tho' never failing,
Has long had pay;—Great Captain Maling :
In brief it would be thought by no man,
How much is done by jilting woc-man.
Still ere these feminines I quit,
There's yet one more my shaft shall hit;
A type, as true of Vixen keen,
As e'er my country-men have seen;
I mean, my Mary Ann's delight,
Housekeeper shrew'd; nam'd Favourite.

16

THE CYPRIAN.

That lopp'd each member's question short,
With Monosyllable retort;
And heeded just as much the Chair,
As I, gilt Coach, of London's May'r;
In faith, she handled matters so,
They found, they'd got a Quid pro quo:
Oh! she's a razor; and no doubt
Cut short each Dun that came to flout;
No wonder she shou'd Fav'rite be,
Clarke found the vast utility,
In having thus, a cur to set,
At ev'ry one, who claim'd his debt:
But now to Fav'rite friend a truce,
Of her I've made sufficient use,
I'll not cockaded youth's abandon,
How goes it with you Huxley Sanden;
Poor Captain, 'tis a dismal fate,
Pent up as thou art, in Newgate;
For merely, during thy narration,
Committing small prevarication;
And that which renders worse the thing,
Is to behold friend Cl-v-r-ing;
That shou'd have kept thee company,
Strut Gen'ral still, at liberty.
So Sandon prithee write some card-on,
And lowly beg, great Senate's pardon,

Drouet Engraved by Williams.

Rpt. Pkt. 11, mkt. by B. W. Fleet, 50 Perennials.

Mrs. MA. CLARKE.

THE SONG.

Mrs. Clarke oft in bed,
Lov'd the Army as 'tis said;
So finding deary's purse was despoil'd;
She cried if I'm not mistaken,
We both may save our Bacon;
And our characters continue unsoil'd.

The lover as 'twas night,
Jump'd in bed *bolt upright*;
Which was *just*, to the *Lady at his side*;
After, which says he, remark,
I'll be guided *Mrs. Clarke*,
By your council; and the thing shall be tried.

They carried matters high,
'Till at length a hue and cry,
Made the billing couple argue it roundly,
Which ended in turmoiling,
So with passion over boiling;
Clarke swore she wou'd give it him most soundly.

So the public no doubt,
Very soon will find out,
How the dealings of this twain were shaken:
When blith as bonny Larks,
*John Bull's Sons*, afraid of *Clarkes*,
Vill guard for the future *their own Bacon*.

24

POETICAL ADDRESS.

A weapon good as *Tartar* ever,
Drew forth the head of foe to sever;
A two-edg'd sword, so wond'rous keen,
She ranks with them, Virago's Queen;
Nor wou'd I, as oponent meet her,
To fill good Mister Speaker's seat Sir.
But now grave rulers tell me why,
As in Bear garden, do ye cry?
And oft rouse matin chanticleer,
Like Bedlamites, with, *Hear! Hear! Hear!*
As if your wise heads better heard,
When other folks, wou'd not list word:
In Rome 'twas erst another thing,
They never made their Senate ring
With stunning din, and laughter's peals,
Like drunken Scots, at midnight reels;
Their was indeed a diff'rent mode,
The *People's good* their ruling code;
They heeded not themselves a fig,
Led by no *Tory*, or a *whig*;
In fine, they had some sterling rules,
Which kept 'em, from becoming fools.
And one of these same rules of right,
Was acting in the morn; not night:
Whereas, ye choose a diff'rent way;
Their day, your night:—your night, their day:

POETICAL ADDRESS.

25

As if your wits, when *sober* muddled,
Would shine far clearer; being fuddled:
For after dinner, and rare boozing,
Ye go to do our bus'ness snoozing;
And oft, upon your benches sit,
As much like *Sense*—as *Sot's* like *Wit*.
Thus having told ye as true friend,
My real thoughts; do pray amend,
And by your conduct at this crisis,
Show the *delinquent*?—*Where the vice—is?*
Of sounding names, your minds divest,
Make *truth* alone, the rigid test;
For facts will out; what e'er ye do,
Which Johnny Bull may make ye rue;
For though poor *Beast* he's wond'rous good,
His veins yet flow, with English blood;
So if enrag'd, he should be scorn'd,
May-hap you'd find him ably horn'd;
And woe-worth he that stands his butting,
Should such a season come for Rutting.
Still some there are I must speak plain,
That fain would see old times again;
Pure epoch when our Senate's lore,
Of dross divested, shone pure ore;
When *Honour* made each breast defy,
The trammels of a Ministry;

POETICAL ADDRESS.

Whose eye fix'd stedfast on our *Charter*,
That sacred gem he wou'd not barter ;
But 'gainst a Crown,—or rabble band,
Guard it; *Palladium* of the land,
Let us once more those times behold,
When patriots rul'd, in spite of gold ;
And *places* were not *bought* and *sold*.
When *titled men* forgot to doat,
So much upon a Petticoat ;
That *Honour* playing sly bo-peep,
Should fall with *strumpet fast asleep*.
When due reward attended merit,
And Soldiers knew their in-born spirit,
Would two-fold compensation claim
Increase of rank, with rise of fame.
Not gain'd, by knocking at the door,
And cringing to a P—'s Wh—e :
But offer'd, as due recompence,
By men of virtue, worth and sense.
Shew me, ye Senators such tines,
And I no more, in lashing rhymes,
Will strive to ope the people's eyes,
And thus your follies satirize :
Oh ! let such days once more appear,
Shine forth, in Patriotism's sphere ;

A Fig for such Breeches!
there's nothing in them !!

Mrs CLARKE'S BREECHES.

Printed in England, by A. Field, Dicke's Place.

MRS CLARKS LEVEE

POETICAL ADDRESS,

No more with gall my pen shall flow,
But fir'd with true encomiast's glow;
I'd sound your deeds, with clarion strain,

So let me not implore in vain;
That I from Helicon may sip,

Huge draughts of praise: Not wield the whip;
Attending which, I now take flight,
Let Wisdom's Day—kill Folly's Night.

J. BROWNE, PRINTER, (BATH-GUIDE OFFICE,) 6, BRIDGE-STREET.
BATH.