VI.
Here chimed the tiny Sweep;—since then
I've loved to drop that trifling balm,
Prescribed, lost Elia, by thy pen,
Within his small half-perish'd palm.[14]
And there the Milkmaid tripp'd and splash'd,
—All milks that pump or pail supplies,
(Save that with human kindness dash'd,)
'Twas mine to quaff 'mid London Cries.