Now, as these tricks and stratagems are known,
’Tis best, at once, the simple truth to own. 
   This was the husband—­in an humble shed
He nightly slept, and daily sought his bread: 
Once for relief the weary man applied;
“Your wife is rich,” the angry vestry cried: 
Alas! he dared not to his wife complain,
Feeling her wrongs, and fearing her disdain: 
By various methods he had tried to live,
But not one effort would subsistence give: 
He was an usher in a school, till noise
Made him less able than the weaker boys;
On messages he went, till he in vain
Strove names, or words, or meanings to retain;
Each small employment in each neighbouring town,
By turn he took, to lay as quickly down: 
For, such his fate, he fail’d in all he plann’d,
And nothing prosper’d in his luckless hand. 
   At his old home, his motive half suppress’d,
He sought no more for riches, but for rest: 
There lived the bounteous Wife, and at her gate
He saw in cheerful groups the needy wait;
“Had he a right with bolder hope t’apply?”
He ask’d—­was answer’d, and went groaning by: 
For some remains of spirit, temper, pride,
Forbade a prayer he knew would be denied. 
   Thus was the grieving man, with burthen’d ass,
Seen day by day along the street to pass: 
“Who is he, Susan? who the poor old man? 
He never calls—­do make him, if you can.” 
The conscious damsel still delay’d to speak,
She stopp’d confused, and had her words to seek;
From Susan’s fears the fact her mistress knew,
And cried—­“The wretch! what scheme has he in view? 
Is this his lot?—­but let him, let him feel —
Who wants the courage, not the will, to steal.” 
   A dreadful winter came, each day severe,
Misty when mild, and icy cold when clear;
And still the humble dealer took his load,
Returning slow, and shivering on the road: 
The Lady, still relentless, saw him come,
And said—­“I wonder, has the wretch a home?” —
“A hut! a hovel!” “Then his fate appears
To suit his crime.”—­“Yes, lady, not his years; —
No! nor his sufferings—­nor that form decay’d.” 
“Well! let the parish give its paupers aid: 
You must the vileness of his acts allow.” —
“And you, dear lady, that he feels it now.” 
“When such dissemblers on their deeds reflect,
Can they the pity they refused expect? 
He that doth evil, evil shall he dread.” —
“The snow,” quoth Susan, “falls upon his bed —
It blows beside the thatch—­it melts upon his head.” 
“Tis weakness, child, for grieving guilt to feel.” —
“Yes, but he never sees a wholesome meal;
Through his bare dress appears his shrivell’d skin,
And ill he fares without, and worse within: 
With that weak body, lame, diseased, and slow,
What cold, pain, peril, must the sufferer know!”
“Think on his crime.”—­“Yes, sure ’twas very wrong;
But look (God bless him!) how he gropes along.”