Her neck grew warp’d beneath autumnal loads
Of various fruit; she now a basket bore;
That head, alas! shall basket bear no more.
Each booth she frequent past, in quest of gain;
And boys with pleasure heard her thrilling strain.
Ah, Doll! all mortals must resign their breath,
And industry itself submit to death!
The cracking crystal yields: she sinks, she dies,—
Her head chopt from her lost shoulders, flies;
Pippins, she cried, but death her voice confounds,