At length I'm freed from tragical parade,
No more a Pythian priestess — tho' a maid ;
At once resigning, with my sacred dwelling,
My wreaths, my wand, my arts of fortune-telling.

Yet superstitious folks, no doubt, are here,
Who still regard me with a kind of fear,
Lest to their secret thoughts these prying eyes
Should boldly pass, and take them by surprize.
Nay, tho' I disavow the whole deceit,
And fairly own my science all a cheat,
Should I declare, in spite of ears and eyes,
The beaus were bandsome, or the critics wise,
They'd all believe it, and with dear delight
Say to themselves at least,
" The girl has taste; " " The woman's in the right. "

Or, should I tell the ladies, so dispos'd,
They'd get good matches ere the season clos'd,
They'd smile, perhaps, with seeming discontent,
And, sneering, wonder what the creature meant;
But whisper to their friends, with beating heart,
" Suppose there should be something in her art! "
Grave statesmen too would chuckle, should I say,
On such a motion, and by such a day,
They would be summon'd from their own affairs
To tend the nation's more important cares;
" Well, if I must — howe'er I dread the load,
" I'll undergo it — for my country's good.

All men are bubbles; in a skilful band,
The ruling passion is the conjurer's wand.
Whether we praise, foretell, persuade, advise,
'Tis that alone confirms us fools or wise.
The devil without may spread the tempting sin,
But the sure conqueror is — the devil within .