Another term is past; ten other years In various trials, troubles, views, and fears: Of these some pass'd in small attempts at trade; Houses she kept for widowers lately made; For now she said, "They'll miss th' endearing friend, And I'll be there the soften'd heart to bend:" And true a part was done as Clelia plann'd - The heart was soften'd, but she miss'd the hand; She wrote a novel, and Sir Denys said The dedication was the best he read; But Edgeworths, Smiths, and Radcliffes so engross'd The public ear, that all her pains were lost. To keep a toy-shop was attempt the last, There too she fail'd, and schemes and hopes were past. Now friendless, sick, and old, and wanting bread, The first-born tears of fallen pride were shed - True, bitter tears; and yet that wounded pride, Among the poor, for poor distinctions sigh'd. Though now her tales were to her audience fit; Though loud her tones, and vulgar grown her wit, Though now her dress--(but let me not explain The piteous patchwork of the needy-vain, The flirtish form to coarse materials lent, And one poor robe through fifty fashions sent); Though all within was sad, without was mean, - Still 'twas her wish, her comfort, to be seen: She would to plays on lowest terms resort, Where once her box was to the beaux a court; And, strange delight! to that same house where she Join'd in the dance, all gaiety and glee, Now with the menials crowding to the wall She'd see, not share, the pleasures of the ball, And with degraded vanity unfold, How she too triumph'd in the years of old. To her poor friends 'tis now her pride to tell, On what a height she stood before she fell; At church she points to one tall seat, and "There We sat," she cries, "when my papa was mayor." Not quite correct in what she now relates, She alters persons, and she forges dates; And finding memory's weaker help decay'd, She boldly calls invention to her aid. Touch'd by the pity he had felt before, For her Sir Denys oped the Alms-house door: "With all her faults," he said, "the woman knew How to distinguish--had a manner too; And, as they say she is allied to some In decent station--let the creature come." Here she and Blaney meet, and take their view Of all the pleasures they would still pursue: Hour after hour they sit, and nothing hide Of vices past; their follies are their pride; What to the sober and the cool are crimes, They boast--exulting in those happy times; The darkest deeds no indignation raise, The purest virtue never wins their praise; But still they on their ancient joys dilate, Still with regret departed glories state, And mourn their grievous fall, and curse their rigorous fate. LETTER XVI. INHABITANTS OF THE ALMS-HOUSE.