When two brown boys just left their grassy seat, The early trav’ller with their pray’rs to greet. While yet Orlando held his pence in hand, He saw their sister on her duty stand; 150 Some twelve years old, demure, affected, sly, Prepared the force of early powers to try; Sudden a look of languor he descries, And well-feign’d apprehension in her eyes; Train’d but yet savage, in her speaking face He mark’d the features of her vagrant race; When a light laugh and roguish leer express’d The vice implanted in her youthful breast. Forth from the tent her elder brother came, Who seem’d offended, yet forbore to blame 160 The young designer, but could only trace The looks of pity in the trav’ller’s face; Within, the father, who from fences nigh } Had brought the fuel for the fire’s supply, } Watch’d now the feeble blaze, and stood dejected by; } On ragged rug, just borrow’d from the bed, And by the hand of coarse indulgence fed, In dirty patchwork negligently dress’d, Reclined the wife, an infant at her breast; In her wild face some touch of grace remain’d, 170 Of vigour palsied and of beauty stain’d; Her bloodshot eyes on her unheeding mate Were wrathful turn’d, and seem’d her wants to state, Cursing his tardy aid--her mother there With gipsy-state engross’d the only chair; Solemn and dull her look; with such she stands, And reads the milk-maid’s fortune in her hands, Tracing the lines of life; assumed through years, Each feature now the steady falsehood wears; With hard and savage eye she views the food, 180 And, grudging, pinches their intruding brood; Last in the group, the worn-out grandsire sits Neglected, lost, and living but by fits; Useless, despised, his worthless labours done, And half protected by the vicious son, Who half supports him; he with heavy glance Views the young ruffians who around him dance; And, by the sadness in his face, appears To trace the progress of their future years: Through what strange course of misery, vice, deceit, 190 Must wildly wander each unpractised cheat! What shame and grief, what punishment and pain, Sport of fierce passions, must each child sustain-- Ere they like him approach their latter end, Without a hope, a comfort, or a friend! But this Orlando felt not; “Rogues,” said he, “Doubtless they are, but merry rogues they be; They wander round the land, and be it true, They break the laws--then let the laws pursue The wanton idlers; for the life they live, 200 Acquit I cannot, but I can forgive.” This said, a portion from his purse was thrown, And every heart seem’d happy like his own. He hurried forth, for now the town was nigh-- “The happiest man of mortal men am I.”