To her all seem’d mysterious, all allied
To avarice, meanness, folly, craft, and pride;
Wearied with thought, she breathed the garden’s air,
Then came the laughing Lass, and join’d her thore.
“My sweetest friend has dwelt with us a week,
And does she love us? be sincere and speak;
My Aunt you cannot - Lord! how I should hate
To be like her, all misery and state;
Proud, and yet envious, she disgusted sees
All who are happy, and who look at ease.