“My dear, my gentle Dorothea, say,
Can I oblige you?” - “You may go away.”
Twelve heavy years this patient soul sustain’d
This wasp’s attacks, and then her praise obtain’d,
Graved on a marble tomb, where he at peace remain’d.
Two daughters wept their loss; the one a child
With a plain face, strong sense, and temper mild,
Who keenly felt the Mother’s angry taunt,
“Thou art the image of thy pious Aunt:”
Long time had Lucy wept her slighted face,