True, bitter tears; and yet that wounded pride,
Among the poor, for poor distinctions sigh’d. 
Though now her tales were to her audience fit;
Though loud her tones, and vulgar grown her wit,
Though now her dress—­(but let me not explain
The piteous patchwork of the needy-vain,
The flirtish form to coarse materials lent,
And one poor robe through fifty fashions sent);
Though all within was sad, without was mean, —
Still ’twas her wish, her comfort, to be seen: 
She would to plays on lowest terms resort,
Where once her box was to the beaux a court;
And, strange delight! to that same house where she
Join’d in the dance, all gaiety and glee,
Now with the menials crowding to the wall
She’d see, not share, the pleasures of the ball,
And with degraded vanity unfold,
How she too triumph’d in the years of old. 
To her poor friends ’tis now her pride to tell,
On what a height she stood before she fell;
At church she points to one tall seat, and “There
We sat,” she cries, “when my papa was mayor.” 
Not quite correct in what she now relates,
She alters persons, and she forges dates;
And finding memory’s weaker help decay’d,
She boldly calls invention to her aid. 
   Touch’d by the pity he had felt before,
For her Sir Denys oped the Alms-house door: 
“With all her faults,” he said, “the woman knew
How to distinguish—­had a manner too;
And, as they say she is allied to some
In decent station—­let the creature come.” 
   Here she and Blaney meet, and take their view
Of all the pleasures they would still pursue: 
Hour after hour they sit, and nothing hide
Of vices past; their follies are their pride;
What to the sober and the cool are crimes,
They boast—­exulting in those happy times;
The darkest deeds no indignation raise,
The purest virtue never wins their praise;
But still they on their ancient joys dilate,
Still with regret departed glories state,
And mourn their grievous fall, and curse their rigorous fate.

LETTER XVI.

INHABITANTS OF THE ALMS-HOUSE.

Thou art the Knight of the Burning Lamp:  if thou wast any way given to virtue, I would swear by thy face; my oath should be by tnis fire.  Oh! thou’rt a perpetual triumph, thou hast saved me a thousand marks in links and torches, walking in a night betwixt tavern and tavern. 
          
                               Shakespeare, Henry IV.

Ebrietas tibi fida comes, tibi Luxus, et atris
Circa te semper volitans Infamia pennis. 
                              Silvius ITALICUS.

-------------------------

Benbow.