But I've been unfit for labour made,
By hunger, over-work, and cold.
(Aside.) Yes, I am a Weaver, I'll stick to that;
And my skill will often myself surprise,
When I think what precious yarns I spin,
And what wondrous webs I weave—of lies.
To beg I'm forbidden by the Act;
But Providence will your charity bless,
If you'll purchase a small religious tract
From a pious Weaver in distress.