And when those wicked thoughts, that keep me poor, And bar respect, assail me as before With force combin’d, you’ll drive the fiend away; For you shall reason, James, and Martha pray.” 310 But though the Doctor could reply with ease To all such trivial arguments as these— Though he could reason, or at least deride, There was a power that would not be defied; A closer reasoner, whom he could not shun, Could not refute, from whom he could not run: For Conscience lived within; she slept, ’tis true, But when she waked, her pangs awaken’d too. She bade him think; and, as he thought, a sigh Of deep remorse precluded all reply. 320 No soft insulting smile, no bitter jest, } Could this commanding power of strength divest, } But with reluctant fear her terrors he confess’d. } His weak advisers he could scorn or slight, } But not their cause; for, in their folly’s spite, } They took the wiser part, and chose their way aright. } Such was the Doctor, upon whom for aid Had some good ladies call’d, but were afraid— Afraid of one who, if report were just, The arm of flesh, and that alone, would trust. 330 But these were few—the many took no care Of what they judged to be his own affair; And if he them from their diseases freed, They neither cared nor thought about his creed; They said his merits would for much atone, And only wonder’d that he lived alone. The widow’d Sister near the Merchant dwelt, And her late loss with lingering sorrow felt. Small was her jointure, and o’er this she sigh’d, } That to her heart its bounteous wish denied, 340} Which yet all common wants, but not her all, supplied. } Sorrows like showers descend, and as the heart For them prepares, they good or ill impart; Some on the mind, as on the ocean rain, Fall and disturb, but soon are lost again; Some, as to fertile lands, a boon bestow, And [seeds], that else had perish’d, live and grow; Some fall on barren soil, and thence proceed The idle blossom, and the useless weed. But how her griefs the Widow’s heart impress’d 350 Must from the tenor of her life be guess’d. Rigid she was, persisting in her grief, Fond of complaint, and adverse to relief. In her religion she was all severe, And as she was, was anxious to appear. When sorrow died restraint usurp’d the place, And sate in solemn state upon her face. Reading she loved not, nor would deign to waste Her precious time on trifling works of taste; Though what she did with all that precious time 360 We know not, but to waste it was a crime— As oft she said, when with a serious friend She spent the hours as duty bids us spend; To read a novel was a kind of sin— Albeit once Clarissa took her in; And now of late, she heard with much surprise, Novels there were that made a compromise Betwixt amusement and religion: these