4
Which, like meeting of witches, is brew'd up at night,
Where each matron arrives, fraught with tales of surprise,
with knowing suspicion and doubtful surmise;
Like the broomstick whirl'd hags that appear in Macbeth,
Each bearing some relic of venom or death,
"To stir up the toil and to double the trouble,
That fire may burn, and that caldron may bubble."
When the party commences, all starch'd and all glum,
They talk of the weather, their corns, or sit mum:
They will tell you of cambric, of ribands, of lace,
How cheap they were sold—and will name you the place.
They discourse of their colds, and they hem, and they cough
And complain of their servants to pass the time off;
Or list to the tale of some doting mamma
How her ten weeks old baby will laugh and say taa!
