Thy stockings mended, though the yawning rents
Gape wide as Erebus; nor hope to find
Some snug recess impervious! should’st thou try
Th’ accustomed garden walks, thine eye shall rue
The budding fragrance of thy tender shrubs,
Myrtle or rose, all crushed beneath the weight
Of coarse checked apron, with impatient hand
Twitched off when showers impend; or crossing lines
Shall mar thy musings, as the cold, wet sheet
Flaps in thy face abrupt. Woe to the friend