At length she feels her part, she finds delight,
And fancies all the plaudits of the night:
Old as she is, she smiles at every speech,
And thinks no youthful part beyond her reach.
But, as the mist of vanity again
Is blown away by press of present pain,
Sad and in doubt she to her purse applies
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For cause of comfort, where no comfort lies;
Then to her task she sighing turns again,—