Her dress was always stiff brocade, With laces broad and dear; Fine Cobwebs! that would thinly shade Her shrivell’d cheek of sallow hue, While, like a Spider, her keen eye, Which never shed soft pity’s tear, Small holes in others geer could spy, And microscopic follies, prying view. And sorely vex’d was ev’ry simple thing That wander’d near her never-tiring sting! Miss DEBBY had a PARROT, who, If Fame speaks true, Could prate, and tell what neighbours did, And yet the saucy rogue was never chid! Sometimes, he talk’d of roving Spouses Who wander’d from their quiet houses: Sometimes, he call’d a Spinster pure By names, that Virtue can’t indure! And sometimes told an ancient Dame Such tales as made her blush with shame! Then gabbled how a giddy Miss Would give the boist’rous Squire a kiss! But chiefly he was taught to cry, “_Who with the Parson toy’d? O fie!_” This little joke, Miss DEBBY taught him, To vex a young and pretty neighbour; But by her scandal-zealous labour To shame she brought him! For, the Old PARROT, like his teacher Was but a false and canting preacher, And many a gamesome pair had sworn Such lessons were not to be borne. At last, Miss DEBBY sore was flouted And by her angry neighbours scouted; She never knew one hour of rest, Of ev’ry Saucy Boor, the jest: The young despis’d her, and the Sage Look’d back on Time’s impartial page; They knew that youth was giv’n to prove The season of extatic joy, That none but Cynics would destroy, The early buds of Love. They also knew that DEBBY sigh’d For charms that envious Time deny’d; That she was vex’d with jealous Spleen That Hymen pass’d her by, unseen. For though the Spinster’s wealth was known, _Gold_ will not purchase Love—_alone_. She, and her PARROT, now were thought The torments of their little Sphere; He, because mischievously taught, And She, because a maid austere!— In short, she deem’d it wise to leave A Place, where none remain’d, to grieve.