Unlike their notions, yet their deeds the same: 
No practised villain could a victim find
Than this stern Lady more completely blind;
Nor (if detected in his fraud) could meet
One less disposed to pardon a deceit;
The wrong she treasured, and on no pretence
Received th’ offender, or forgot th’ offence: 
But the kind Servant, to the thrice-proved knave
A fourth time listen’d and the past forgave. 
   First in her youth, when she was blithe and gay;
Came a smooth rogue, and stole her love away: 
Then to another and another flew,
To boast the wanton mischief he could do: 
Yet she forgave him, though so great her pain,
That she was never blithe or gay again. 
   Then came a spoiler, who, with villain-art
Implored her hand, and agonized her heart;
He seized her purse, in idle waste to spend
With a vile wanton, whom she call’d her friend;
Five years she suffer’d—­he had revell’d five —
Then came to show her he was just alive;
Alone he came, his vile companion dead,
And he, a wand’ring pauper, wanting bread;
His body wasted, wither’d life and limb,
When this kind soul became a slave to him: 
Nay, she was sure that, should he now survive,
No better husband would be left alive: 
For him she mourn’d, and then, alone and poor,
Sought and found comfort at her Lady’s door: 
Ten years she served, and mercy her employ,
Her tasks were pleasure, and her duty joy. 
   Thus lived the Mistress and the Maid, design’d
Each other’s aid—­one cautious, and both kind: 
Oft at their window, working, they would sigh
To see the aged and the sick go by;
Like wounded bees, that at their home arrive
Slowly and weak, but labouring for the hive. 
   The busy people of a mason’s yard
The curious Lady view’d with much regard;
With steady motion she perceived them draw
Through blocks of stone the slowly-working saw;
It gave her pleasure and surprise to see
Among these men the signs of revelry: 
Cold was the season, and confined their view,
Tedious their tasks, but merry were the crew;
There she beheld an aged pauper wait,
Patient and still, to take an humble freight;
Within the panniers on an ass he laid
The ponderous grit, and for the portion paid;
This he re-sold, and, with each trifling gift,
Made shift to live, and wretched was the shift. 
   Now will it be by every reader told
Who was this humble trader, poor and old. —
In vain an author would a name suppress,
From the least hint a reader learns to guess;
Of children lost, our novels sometimes treat,
We never care—­assured again to meet: 
In vain the writer for concealment tries,
We trace his purpose under all disguise;
Nay, though he tells us they are dead and gone,
Of whom we wot, they will appear anon;
Our favourites fight, are wounded, hopeless lie,
Survive they cannot—­nay, they cannot die;