POETRY. 457 



But then an ev'ning walk's the thing-^ 



Not if you're hot before — 

 The man who sweats when he sits still, 



Will, when he moves, sweat more. 



Well, now the supper's come — and come 



To make bad worse, I wot ; 

 For supper, while it heats the cool, 



Will never cool the hot. 



And bed, which cheers the cold man's heart, 



Helps not the hot a pin ; 

 For he who sweats when out of bed, 



Sweats ten times more when in. 



MAD POLL ; /row Bloomfield's Farmer's Boy, 



THE pride of such a party, Nature's pride, 

 Was lovely Poll ; who innocently tri'd, 

 With hat of airy shape and ribbons gay. 

 Love to inspire, and stand in Hymen's way : 

 But, 'ere her twentieth summer could expand, 

 Or youth was render'd happy with her hand, 

 Her mind's serenity was lost and gone, 

 Her eye grew languid, and she \vept alone ; 

 Yet causeless seem'd her grief ; for quick restrain'd, 

 Mirth follow'd loud, or indignation reign'd : 

 Whims wild and simple led her from her home, 

 The heath, the common, or the fields to roam ; 

 Terror and joy alternate rul'd her hours ; 

 Now blithe she sung, and gather'd useless flow'rs ; 

 Now pluck'd a tender twig from every bough, 

 To whip the hov'ring demons from her brow. 

 Ill-fated maid ! thy guiding spark is fled, 

 And lasting wretchedness waits round thy bed — 

 Thy bed of straw ! for mark where even now 

 O'er their lost child afflicted parents bow ; 

 Their woe she knows not, but perversely coy, 

 Inverted customs yield hey sullen joy ; 

 Her midnight meals in secresy she takes, 

 Low mutt'ring to the moon, that rising breaks 

 Through night's dark gloom : — oh how much more forlorn 

 Her night, that knows of no returning dawn ! — 

 Slow from the threshold, once her infant seat, 

 O'er the cold earth she crawls to her retreat ; 



