We look despondency; no infant near,
To bless the eye or win the parent's ear;
Our sudden heats and quarrels to allay,
And soothe the petty sufferings of the day.
Alike our want, yet both the want reprove;
Where are, I cry, these pledges of our love?
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When she, like Jacob's wife, makes fierce reply,
Yet fond—'Oh! give me children, or I die';
And I return—still childless doom'd to live,