“This shall I like? and what is that about?” She had “Clarissa” for her heart’s dear friend— Was pleased each well-tried virtue to commend. And praised the scenes that one might fairly doubt If one so young could know so much about. Pious and pure, th’ heroic beauty strove Against the lover and against the love; 70 But strange that maid so young should know the strife, In all its views, was painted to the life! Belinda knew not—nor a tale would read, That could so slowly on its way proceed; And, ere Clarissa reach’d the wicked town, The weary damsel threw the volume down. “Give me,” she said, “for I would laugh or cry, ‘Scenes from the Life,’ and ‘Sensibility;’ ‘Winters at Bath,’—I would that I had one! } ‘The Constant Lover,’ the ‘Discarded Son,’ 80} ‘The Rose of Raby,’ ‘Delmore,’ or ‘The Nun.’ } These promise something, and may please, perhaps, Like ‘Ethelinda,’ and the dear ‘Relapse.’” To these her heart the gentle maid resign’d, And such the food that fed the gentle mind. II. _P._ Knew you the fair BELINDA, once the boast Of a vain mother, and a favourite toast Of clerks and young lieutenants, a gay set Of light admirers?—Is she married yet? _F._ Yes! she is married; though she waited long, 90 Not from a prudent fear of choosing wrong, But want of choice.—She took a surgeon’s mate, With his half-pay, that was his whole estate. Fled is the charming bloom that nature spread } Upon her cheek, the pure, the rosy red— } This, and the look serene, the calm, kind look, are fled. } Sorrow and sadness now the place possess, And the pale cast of anxious fretfulness. She _wonders_ much—as, why they live so ill; Why the rude butcher brings his weekly bill; 100 She wonders why that baker will not trust, And says, most truly says,—“Indeed, he must.” She wonders where her former friends are gone— And thus, from day to day, she wonders on. Howe’er she can—she dresses gaily yet, And then she wonders how they came in debt. Her husband loves her, and in accent mild Answers, and treats her like a fretted child; But when he, ruffled, makes severe replies, } And seems unhappy—then she pouts, and cries 110} “She wonders when she’ll die!”—She faints, but never dies. } “How well my father lived!” she says.—“How well, My dear, your father’s creditors could tell!” And then she weeps, till comfort is applied, That soothes her spleen or gratifies her pride: Her dress and novels, visits and success In a chance-game, are soft’ners of distress. So life goes on!—But who, that loved his life, Would take a fair Belinda for his wife! Who thinks that all are for their stations born, 120 Some to indulge themselves, and to adorn; And some, a useful people, to prepare, Not being rich, good things for those who are,