An Elegy On The Glory Of Her Sex, Mrs Mary Blaize
by Oliver Goldsmith
Good people all, with one accord
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word,—
From those who spoke her praise.
The needy seldom passed her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor,—
Who left a pledge behind.
She strove the neighbourhood to please
With manners wondrous winning;
And never followed wicked ways,—
Unless when she was sinning.
At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size,
She never slumbered in her pew,—
But when she shut her eyes.
Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has followed her,—
When she has walked before.
But now her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all;
The doctors found, when she was dead,—
Her last disorder mortal.
Let us lament in sorrow sore,
For Kent Street well may say
That had she lived a twelvemonth more,—
She had not died today.
End of the poem
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