Page:The works of Anna Laetitia Barbauld volume 1.djvu/305

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WEST END FAIR.
221
Swept from the streets by poor Lancaster,
My sub-master.

"That Howard ran me out of breath,
And Thornton and a hundred more
Will be my death:
The air is sweet, the month is gay,
And I," said she, "must have a holiday."

So said, she doffed her robes of brown
In which she commonly is seen,—
Like French Beguine,—
And sent for ornaments to town:
And Taste in Flavians form stood by,
Penciled her eyebrows, curled her hair,
Disposed each ornament with care,
And hung her round with trinkets rare,—
She scarcely, looking in the glass,
Knew her own face.