But when those charms are past, for charms are frail, Where, then, ah! where shall poverty reside, To see each joy the sons of pleasure know, There the black gibbet glooms beside the way; Are these thy serious thoughts?-Ah, turn thine eyes Where the poor houseless shiv'ring female lies: And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the show'r, With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, She left her wheel and robes of country brown. Ah, no. To distant climes, a dreary scene, Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, |