Your 18C poem of the day

The next time one of my stories gets rejected, I'll think of this poem.

"Upon Her Play Being Returned to Her, Stained with Claret"

By Mary Leapor (1722–1746) 
(thanks to Celia)
 
Welcome, dear wanderer, once more!   
Thrice welcome to thy native cell!
Within this peaceful humble door   
Let thou and I contented dwell!
But say, O whither hast thou ranged?   
Why dost thou blush a crimson hue?
Thy fair complexion's greatly changed:   
Why, I can scarce believe 'tis you.
Then tell, my son, O tell me, where   
Didst thou contract this sottish dye?
You kept ill company, I fear,
When distant from your parent's eye.
Was it for this, O graceless child!   
Was it for this, you learned to spell?
Thy face and credit both are spoiled:   
Go drown thyself in yonder well.
I wonder how thy time was spent:   
No news (alas!) hadst thou to bring.
Has thou not climed the Monument?   
Nor seen the lions, nor the king?
But now I'll keep you here secure,  
No more you view the smoky sky:
The court was never made (I'm sure)   
For idiots, like thee and I.