When sorrow died restraint usurp’d the place,
And sate in solemn state upon her face.
Reading she loved not, nor would deign to waste
Her precious time on trifling works of taste;
Though what she did with all that precious time 360
We know not, but to waste it was a crime—
As oft she said, when with a serious friend
She spent the hours as duty bids us spend;
To read a novel was a kind of sin—
Albeit once Clarissa took her in;