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Poem by George Canning
For one long term, or e'er her trial came, Here Brownrigg linger'd. Often have these cells Echoed her blasphemies, as with shrill voice She scream'd for fresh Geneva. Not to her Did the blithe fields of Tothill, or thy street St. Giles, its fair varieties expand; Till at the last in slow drawn cart she went To execution. Dost thou ask her crime? She whipp'd two female 'prentices to death, And hid them in the coal-hole. For her mind Shap'd strictest plans of discipline. Sage schemes! Such as Lycurgus taught, when at the shrine Of the Orthyan Goddess he bade flog The little Spartans; such as erst chastised Our Milton when at College. For this act Did Brownrigg swing. Harsh laws; but time shall come, When France shall reign, and laws be all repeal'd!
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