the English Nation.
219
Here, in a Grotto, ſhelter'd cloſe from Air,
And ſcreen'd in Shades from Day's deteſted Glare,
She ſighs for ever on her penſive Bed,
Pain at her Side, and Megrim at her Head,
Two Handmaids wait the Throne: Alike in Place,
But diff'ring far in Figure and in Face,
Here ſtood Ill-nature like an ancient Maid,
Her wrinkled Form in black and white array'd;
With Store of Prayers for Mornings, Nights, and Noons,
Her Hand is fill'd; her Boſom with Lampoons.
There Affectation, with a ſickly Mein,
Shows in her Cheek the Roſes of eighteen,
Practis'd to liſp, and hang the Head aſide,
Faints into Airs, and languiſhes with Pride;
On
