To find a something, which will soon expose
The villanies and wiles of her determined foes: 
And, having thus adventured, thus endured,
Fame, wealth, and lover, are for life secured. 
   Much have I fear’d, but am no more afraid,
When some chaste beauty, by some wretch betray’d,
Is drawn away with such distracted speed,
That she anticipates a dreadful deed: 
Not so do I—­Let solid walls impound
The captive fair, and dig a moat around;
Let there be brazen locks and bars of steel,
And keepers cruel, such as never feel;
With not a single note the purse supply,
And when she begs, let men and maids deny;
Be windows those from which she dares not fall,
And help so distant, ’tis in vain to call;
Still means of freedom will some power devise,
And from the baffled ruffian snatch his prize. 
   To Northern Wales, in some sequester’d spot,
I’ve follow’d fair Louisa to her cot: 
Where, then a wretched and deserted bride,
The injur’d fair-one wished from man to hide;
Till by her fond repenting Belville found,
By some kind chance—­the straying of a hound,
He at her feet craved mercy, nor in vain,
For the relenting dove flew back again. 
   There’s something rapturous in distress, or oh! 
Could Clementina bear her lot of woe? 
Or what she underwent could maiden undergoe? 
The day was fix’d; for so the lover sigh’d,
So knelt and craved, he couldn’t be denied;
When, tale most dreadful! every hope adieu, —
For the fond lover is the brother too: 
All other griefs abate; this monstrous grief
Has no remission, comfort, or relief;
Four ample volumes, through each page disclose, —
Good Heaven protect us! only woes on woes;
Till some strange means afford a sudden view
Of some vile plot, and every woe adieu! 
   Now, should we grant these beauties all endure
Severest pangs, they’ve still the speediest cure;
Before one charm be withered from the face,
Except the bloom, which shall again have place,
In wedlock ends each wish, in triumph all disgrace;
And life to come, we fairly may suppose,
One light, bright contrast to these wild dark woes. 
   These let us leave, and at her sorrows look,
Too often seen, but seldom in a book;
Let her who felt, relate them;—­on her chair
The heroine sits—­in former years, the fair,
Now aged and poor; but Ellen Orford knows
That we should humbly take what Heaven bestows. 
   “My father died—­again my mother wed,
And found the comforts of her life were fled;
Her angry husband, vex’d through half his years
By loss and troubles, filled her soul with fears: 
Their children many, and ’twas my poor place
To nurse and wait on all the infant-race;
Labour and hunger were indeed my part,
And should have strengthen’d an erroneous heart. 
   “Sore was the grief to see him angry come,
And teased with business, make distress at home;