That shuts the swelling bosom from relief;
That speaks in feeble cries a soul distressed,
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Or the sad laugh that cannot be repress'd.
The neighbour-matron leaves her wheel and flies
With all the aid her poverty supplies;
Unfee'd, the calls of Nature she obeys,
Not led by profit, nor allured by praise;
And, waiting long, till these contentions cease,
She speaks of comfort, and departs in peace.