_Sunday_.
Sir Andrew's answer!--but, shocking to say,
Being franked unthinkingly yesterday.
To the horror of Agnews yet unborn,
It arrived on this blessed Sunday morn!!--
How shocking!--the postman's self cried "shame on't,"
Seeing the immaculate Andrew's name on't!!
What will the Club do?--meet, no doubt.
'Tis a matter that touches the Class Devout,
And the friends of the Sabbath _must_ speak out.
_Tuesday_.
Saw to-day, at the raffle--and saw it with pain--
That those stylish Fitzwigrams begin to dress plain.
Even gay little Sophy smart trimmings renounces--
She who long has stood by me thro' all sorts of flounces,
And showed by upholding the toilet's sweet rites,
That we girls may be Christians without being frights.
This, I own, much alarms me; for tho' one's religious,
And strict and--all that, there's no need to be hideous;
And why a nice bonnet should stand in the way
Of one's going to heaven, 'tisn't easy to say.
Then, there's Gimp, the poor thing--if her custom we drop,
Pray what's to become of her soul and her shop?
If by saints like ourselves no more orders are given,
She'll lose all the interest she now takes in heaven;
And this nice little "fire-brand, pluckt from the burning,"
May fall in again at the very next turning.
_Wednesday_.
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