The Wilmingtonian, And Delaware Register

THE TEA PARTY

When the party commences, all starch'd and all glum,
They talk of the weather, their corns, or sit mum;
They will tell of ribbons, of cambric, of lace;
How cheap they were sold—and will tell you the place.
They discourse of their colds, and they hem and they cough,
And complain of their servants, to pass the time off.
But Tea, that enlivener of wit and of soul,
More loquacious by far than the draughts of the bowl,
Soon loosens the tongue and enlivens the mind,
And enlightens their eyes to faults of mankind.
It brings on the tapis their neighbor's defects,
The faults of their friends or their wilful neglects;
Reminds them of many a good natur'd tale
About those who are stylish, and those who are frail,
'Till the sweet temper'd dames are converted by tea,
Into character manglers—Gunaikophagi.

In harmless chit chat an acquaintance they roast,
And serve up a friend as they serve up a toast.
Some gentle faux pas, or some female mistake,
Is like sweetmeats delicious, or serv'd up as cake,
A bit of broad scandal is like a dry crust,
It would stick in the throat so they butter it first,
With a little affected good nature, they cry,
"Nobody regrets the thing deeper than I!"

Ah, ladies and was it by Heaven design'd
That you should be merciful, loving and kind:
Did it form you like angels, and send you below,
To prophecy peace—bid charity flow!
And have you thus left your primeval estate
And wander'd so widely—so strangely of late?
Alas! the sad cause I too plainly can see;
The evils have all come upon you through tea.

Curs'd weed, that can make our fair spirits resign
The character mild of their mission divine
That can blot from their bosom that tenderness true
Which from female to female forever is due.
Oh how nice is their texture, how fragile the frame!
Of that delicate fabric, a female's fair fame!
'Tis the sensitive plant, it recoils from the breath,
And shrinks from the touch as if pregnant with death.

How often—how often has innocence sigh'd
Has beauty been reft of its honor, its pride,
Has virtue, though pure as an angel of light,
Been painted as dark as a demon of night!
All offered up victims—an auto de fe,
At the gloomy cabals, the dark orgies of tea.
If I in the remnant that's left me of life
Am to suffer the torments of slanderous strife,
Let me fall, I implore, in a slang-whanger's claw,
Where the evil is open, and subject to law;
Not nibbled and mumbled, and put to the rack,
By the sly undermining of tea party clack;
Condemn me ye gods to a newspaper roasting.
But spare me! oh spare me a tea table toasting!