How can a man be in the path to ruin,
When all the brokers are his bosom friends?
Yet, on my hopes, and those of my dear daughter,
These rascals throw a bucket of cold water!
cli.
Pour gall and wormwood in the sweetest cup,
Poison the very wells of life—and place
Whitechapel needles, with their sharp points up,
Even in the softest feather bed that e'er
Was manufactured by upholsterer."
clii.
Like one of Wordsworth's rivers, calmly on;
But yet, at times, Reflection, "in her still
Small voice," would whisper, something must be done;
He asked advice of Fanny, and the maid
Promptly and duteously lent her aid.
cliii.
And quickness of perception which belong
Exclusively to gentle womankind,
That to submit to slanderers was wrong,
And the best plan to silence and admonish them,
Would be to give "a party"—and astonish them.
