He drank, he swore, he jested and he lied; Thus aiding Folly with departing Breath:---- “Beware, _Lorenzo_, the slow-sudden Death.” Next died the Widow _Goe_, an active Dame, Fam’d, ten miles round, and worthy all her Fame; She lost her Husband when their Loves were young, But kept her Farm, her Credit and her Tongue: Full thirty years, she rul’d with matchless Skill, With guiding Judgment and resistless Will; Advice she scorn’d, Rebellions she suppress’d, And Sons and Servants bow’d at her behest. Like that great man’s, who to his SAVIOUR came, Were the strong Words of this commanding Dame;-- “Come,” if she said, they came; if “go,” were gone; And if “do this,”--that instant it was done: Her Maidens told she was all Eye and Ear, In Darkness saw and could at distance hear;-- No Parish-Business in the Place could stir, Without Direction or Assent from her; In turn she took each Office as it fell; Knew all their Duties and discharg’d them well; The lazy Vagrants in her presence shook, And pregnant Damsels fear’d her stern Rebuke; She look’d on Want, with Judgment, clear and cool, And felt with Reason and bestow’d by Rule: She match’d both Sons and Daughters to her mind, And lent them Eyes, for Love, she heard, was blind; Yet ceaseless still she throve, alert, alive, The working Bee, in full or empty Hive; Busy and careful, like that working Bee, No time for Love nor tender Cares had she; But when our Farmers made their amorous Vows, She talk’d of Market-Steeds and Patent-Ploughs. Not unemploy’d her Evenings pass’d away, Amusement clos’d, as Business wak’d the Day; When to her Toilet’s brief Concern she ran, And conversation with her Friends, began; Who all were welcome at her Board to share, And joyous Neighbours prais’d her Christmas Fare; That none around might, in their scorn, complain Of Gossip _Goe_ as greedy in her Gain. Thus long she reign’d, admir’d, if not approv’d; Prais’d, if not honour’d; fear’d, if not belov’d;-- When, as the busy Days of Spring drew near, That call’d for all the Forecast of the Year; When lively Hope the rising Crops survey’d, And April promis’d what September pay’d; When stray’d her Lambs where _Gorse_ and _Greenweed_ grow; When rose her Grass in richer Vales below; When pleas’d she look’d on all the smiling Land, } And view’d the Hinds, who wrought at her command,} As _Bridget_ churn’d the Butter for her Hand; } (Geese, Hens, and Turkeys following where she went;) Then, Dread o’ercame her,--that her Days were spent. “Bless me! I die and not a Warning giv’n,-- “With _much_ to do on Earth and ALL for Heav’n! “No Reparation for my Soul’s Affairs, “No Leave petition’d for the Barn’s Repairs; “Accounts perplex’d, my Interest yet unpaid, “My Mind unsettled and my Will unmade;--