And here is one, the sibyl of the row, 180 Who knows all secrets, or affects to know. Seeking their fate, to her the simple run, To her the guilty, theirs awhile to shun; Mistress of worthless arts, depraved in will, Her care unbless'd and unrepaid her skill, Slave to the tribe, to whose command she stoops, And poorer than the poorest maid she dupes. Between the road-way and the walls, offence Invades all eyes and strikes on every sense: There lie, obscene, at every open door, 190 Heaps from the hearth and sweepings from the floor; And day by day the mingled masses grow, As sinks are disembogued and kennels flow. There hungry dogs from hungry children steal; There pigs and chickens quarrel for a meal; There dropsied infants wail without redress, And all is want and wo and wretchedness: Yet, should these boys, with bodies bronzed and bare, High-swoln and hard, outlive that lack of care, Forced on some farm, the unexerted strength, 200 Though loth to action, is compell'd at length, 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 dropp'd between; Daughters and sons to yon compartments creep, And parents here beside their children sleep. Ye who have power, these thoughtless people part, 210 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 frouzy patches rest! What nauseous fragments on yon fractured 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, 220 Left by neglect and burrow'd in that bed; The mother-gossip has the love suppress'd 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 ev'ry kind but want of power. Here are no wheels for either wool or flax, 230 But packs of cards--made up of sundry packs; Here is no clock, nor will they turn the glass. And see how swift th'important moments pass; Here are no books, but ballads on the wall Are some abusive, and indecent all; Pistols are here, unpair'd; with nets and hooks, Of every kind, for rivers, ponds, and brooks; An ample flask, that nightly rovers fill With recent poison from the Dutchman's still;