The meanest wenches, have a right to live!
Nor you, ye Belles! impute the fault to these,
If at the glittering ball they don’t appear,
Where music hath a thousand charms to please,
And with its sweetness, almost wounds the ear,
Perhaps in their neglected minds, were sown
The seeds of worth, from nature’s rich supply;
Such seeds of worth, as might in time have grown,
And flourish’d lovely, to the ravish’d eye.
Full many a rural lass in Britain’s land,