A treacherous wretch, an artful sober knave,
And ten times worse for manners cool and grave:
And she devoid of sense, to set her hand
To scoundrel deeds she could not understand.
Alas! ’tis true; and I in vain had tried
To soften crime that cannot be denied;
And might have labour’d many a tedious verse
The latent cause of mischief to rehearse:
Be it confess’d, that long, with troubled look,
This Trader view’d a huge accompting-book;