‘Fed you the swine?’ - Good heaven! how I am task’d! -
What! can you smile? Ah! smile not at the grief
That woos your pity and demands relief.”
“Trifles, my love: you take a false alarm;
Think, I beseech you, better of the Farm:
Duties in every state demand your care,
And light are those that will require it there.
Fix on the Youth a favouring eye, and these,
To him pertaining, or as his, will please.”
“What words,” the Lass replied, “offend my ear!