Petticoat-government, Prowlina Pry, Of this peculiar sort will scarcely suit us. Such cases clear collective sense must try, Not a she-Draco or a lady-Brutus. To sweeten our poor world we all may strive, But life's not one long Puritanic Sunday; And the great World while manhood is alive, Shall not be wholly swayed by Mrs. Grundy.
Prowlina Pry Society's festering ills Will not be healed by your pragmatic plaster. Tare-rooting that the growing corn-crop kills Was not the plan or counsel of the Master. You with rash hand would wield the whip of cords He raised but once in righteous indignation. Heed the great lesson that the fact affords, And leave our woes to Wisdom's mild purgation.
MRS. PROWLINA PRY.—"I HOPE I DON'T INTRUDE!"
Thousands of fellow-creatures flung from work At the mere pen-stroke of a hasty Censor!— An unconsidered trifle Zeal may shirk! But Sense may not, nor Justice! They are denser
Than Punch imagines, our new Bumble-band, If Mistress Pry's decision they abide by; But should they fail us, Punch throughout the land Will wake the People prudes and prigs are tried by!
TO A VENETIAN POLICEMAN.
[The guardia municipale of Venice is now dressed like the London policeman.]