37
When warm'd by health, as Serpents in the Spring,
Aside their slough of Indolence they fling.
Yet ere they go, a greater evil comes—
See crowded beds in those contiguous rooms;
Beds but ill parted, by a paltry screen,
Of paper'd lath or curtain, dropt between;
Daughters and Sons to yon compartments creep,
And Parents here, beside their Children sleep;
Ye who have power, these thoughtless people part,
Nor let the Ear be first to taint the Heart.
Come! search within, nor sight nor smell regard;
The true Physician walks the foulest ward.
See! on the floor, what frowzy patches rest!
What nauseous fragments on yon fractur'd chest!
What downy-dust beneath yon window-seat!
And round these posts that serve this bed for feet;
This bed where all those tatter'd garments lie,
Worn by each sex, and now perforce thrown by.
See! as we gaze, an Infant lifts its head,
Left by neglect and burrow'd in that bed;
The Mother-gossip has the love supprest,
An Infant's cry once waken'd in her breast;
And daily prattles as her round she takes,
(With strong resentment) of the want she makes.
Whence all these Woes?—from want of virtuous Will,
Of honest Shame, of time-improving Skill;
From want of care, t'employ the vacant hour,
And want of every kind, but want of Power.
Here are no wheels for either Wool or Flax,
But Packs of Cards, made up of sundry packs;
Aside their slough of Indolence they fling.
Yet ere they go, a greater evil comes—
See crowded beds in those contiguous rooms;
Beds but ill parted, by a paltry screen,
Of paper'd lath or curtain, dropt between;
Daughters and Sons to yon compartments creep,
And Parents here, beside their Children sleep;
Ye who have power, these thoughtless people part,
Nor let the Ear be first to taint the Heart.
Come! search within, nor sight nor smell regard;
The true Physician walks the foulest ward.
See! on the floor, what frowzy patches rest!
What nauseous fragments on yon fractur'd chest!
What downy-dust beneath yon window-seat!
And round these posts that serve this bed for feet;
This bed where all those tatter'd garments lie,
Worn by each sex, and now perforce thrown by.
See! as we gaze, an Infant lifts its head,
Left by neglect and burrow'd in that bed;
The Mother-gossip has the love supprest,
An Infant's cry once waken'd in her breast;
And daily prattles as her round she takes,
(With strong resentment) of the want she makes.
Whence all these Woes?—from want of virtuous Will,
Of honest Shame, of time-improving Skill;
From want of care, t'employ the vacant hour,
And want of every kind, but want of Power.
Here are no wheels for either Wool or Flax,
But Packs of Cards, made up of sundry packs;
