Chance to a ruin leads her; you behold,
And straight the angel of her taste is told;
Chance to a cottage leads you, and you trace
A virtuous pity in the angel’s face;
She reads a work you chance to recommend,
And likes it well—at least, she likes the friend;
But, when it chances this no more is done, 330
She has not left one virtue—No! not one!
But be it said, good sir, we use such art,
Is it not done to hold a fickle heart,