But, if another should the dame persuade To wed again, farewell the gains of trade: For if the widow’d dove could not refrain, She must return to poverty again. The man was buried, and the will was read, And censure spared them not, alive or dead! At first the Widow and the Clerk, her friend, 290 Spent their free days as prudence bade them spend. At the same table they would dine, ’tis true, And they would worship in the self-same pew: Each had the common interest so at heart, It would have griev’d them terribly to part; And as they both were serious and sedate, ’Twas long before the world began to prate. But when it prated—though without a cause,— It put the pair in mind of breaking laws, Led them to reason what it was that gave 300 A husband power, when quiet in his grave. The marriage contract they had now by heart— “Till death!”—you see, no longer—“do us part.” “Well! death has loosed us from the tie, but still The loosen’d husband makes a binding will; Unjust and cruel are the acts of men.” “Thus they—and then they sigh’d—and then—and then, ’Twas snaring souls,” they said; and how he dared They did not know—they wonder’d—and were snared. “It is a marriage, surely! Conscience might 310 Allow an act so very nearly right; Was it not witness to our solemn vow, As man and wife? it must the act allow.” But Conscience, stubborn to the last, replied, “It cannot be! I am not satisfied; ’Tis not a marriage: either dare be poor, Or dare be virtuous—part, and sin no more!” Alas! they many a fond evasion made; They could relinquish neither love nor trade. They went to church, but, thinking, fail’d to pray; 320 They felt not ease or comfort at a play. If times were good—“We merit not such times;” If ill—“Is this the produce of our crimes?” When sick—“’Tis thus forbidden pleasures cease;” When well—they both demand, “Had Zimri peace? For though our worthy master was not slain, His injured ghost has reason to complain.” Ah, John! bethink thee of thy generous joy, When Conscience drove thee from thy late employ; When thou wert poor, and knew not where to run, 330 But then could say, “The will of God be done!” When thou that will, and not thine own, obey’d— Of Him alone, and not of man afraid. Thou then hadst pity on that wretch, and, free Thyself, couldst pray for him who injured thee; Then how alert thy step, thyself how light All the day long! thy sleep how sound at night! But now, though plenty on thy board be found, And thou hast credit with thy neighbours round, Yet there is something in thy looks that tells, 340 An odious secret in thy bosom dwells. Thy form is not erect, thy neighbours trace A coward spirit in thy shifting pace. Thou goest to meeting, not from any call, But just to hear, that we are sinners all— And equal sinners, or the difference made