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When hatred's the fruit we receive for our labours!
For the mind is oft pang'd, when the frame's unresisting,
And, like vipers new bruis'd, frets existence by twisting.
Nay, frown not, sweet Sister, I mean, on my verity,
To give that for truth you receive as severity.
I can see, as your eyes o'er my countenance roam,
That you tacitly bid me for faults look at home;
When I do, lovely spinster, I freely confess,
That the picture enhances my mental distress;
Kath'rine King's my palladium, my pride, and my pleasure,
Who leads my battalions, and—fingers my treasure;
But Kate has antipathies, deep and oppressing,
And ne'er would consent to give Genius her blessing,
Yet the imbecile harlot acts proper by fits,
Tho' the finger of Time's rubb'd the nap from her wits:
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And lights goody Linley with caution to bed;
Mutters prayers with long muscles, that good may betide her,
And places her crotchets and fiddles beside her;
Then gives the old women some obsolete rules,
And strives to get bread as the wet nurse of fools;
Wipes the breech of her bantlings, night, morning, and noon,
And feeds master Cobb with a shovel-form'd spoon.
If my gloom is increas'd by untenanted benches,
Still the Norfolk Street nymph all that's costly retrenches;
Forms her creed of what's right from Economy's song,
And clips off an ell from each train that's—too long;
Hides the tenth of old candles, as family duty,
And tells gentle Crouch, her best dress is her beauty.
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