Like the crippled Widow who weeps alone,
And cannot make a doze her own,
For the dread that mayhap on the morrow,
The true and Christian reading to baulk,
A broker will take up her bed and walk,
By way of curing her sorrow.
CXCIV.
No cause like these she had to bewail:
But the breath of applause had blown a gale,
And winds from that quarter seldom fail