UPON HER PLAY BEING RETURNED TO HER STAINED WITH CLARET by MARY LEAPOR

Welcome, dear Wanderer, once more!
Thrice welcome to thy native cell!
Within this peaceful humble door
Let thou and I contented dwell!

But say, O whither hast thou rang'd?
Why dost thou blush, a crimson hue?
Thy fair complexion's greatly chang'd:
Why, O can scarce believe 'tis you.

Then tell, my son, O tell me, where
Didst thou contract this sottish dye?
You kept ill company, I fear,
When distant from your parent's eye.

Was it for this, O graceless child,
Was it for this you learn'd to spell?
Thy face and credit both are spoil'd;
Go drown thyself in yonder well.

I wonder how thy time was spent:
No news (Alas) hast thou to bring?
Hast thou not climb'd the Monument?
Nor seen the lions, nor the King?

But now I'll keep you here secure:
No more you view the smoky sky:
The court was never made (I'm sure)
For idiots, like thee and I.

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