Yet here a voice cries 'Respite!' from the clouds—
The accused, both in a tale, protest, disclaim,
Abominate the horror: 'Not my hand'
Asserts the friend—'Nor mine' chimes in the wife,
'Seeing I have no hand, nor write at all.'
Illiterate—for she goes on to ask,
What if the friend did pen now verse now prose,
Commend it to her notice now and then?
'Twas pearls to swine: she read no more than wrote,
And kept no more than read, for as they fell