The service o’er, the crowd retires,
His pride a secret wish inspires,
To know from Goody what soft part
Of all his song had touch’d her heart.
As from the church she hobbling came,
He thus address’d the ancient dame:
Goody, a word—I won’t detain you,
I think of late I oft have seen you
Melted in tears; do pr’ythee tell
The piteous cause for which they fell.