[ 40 ]
lips I preſs the purple juice of joy, while thou rioteſt, in fine, in exceſs of enjoyment; doſt thou ſtill thirſt, inſatiate wretch! for the blood of this innocent little lamb, whoſe ſole food is the graſs on which he treads; his only beverage the brook that trickles muddy from
his feet? Alas! let my tears—alas! for a poor innocent that hath done thee no harm, which, indeed, is incapable of harm, let the tears of nature plead! Spare, ſpare, I beſeech thee by every tender idea ſpare my maternal boſom the un-
utterable
