Doris, a widow, past her prime,
Her spouse long dead, her wailing doubles;
Her real griefs increase by time,
And what abates, improves her troubles.
Those pangs her prudent hopes suppressed,
Impatient now she cannot smother:
How should the helpless woman rest?
One’s gone—nor can she get another.
To an old Woman who used Paint.
Leave off thy paint, perfumes, and youthful dress,