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 How can a man be in the path to ruin, When all the brokers are his bosom friends? Yet, on my hopes, and those of my dear daughter, These rascals throw a bucket of cold water!

"They'd wrinkle with deep cares the prettiest face, Pour gall and wormwood in the sweetest cup, Poison the very wells of life—and place Whitechapel needles, with their sharp points up, Even in the softest feather bed that e'er Was manufactured by upholsterer."

This said—he journeyed "at his own sweet will," Like one of Wordsworth's rivers, calmly on; But yet, at times, Reflection, "in her still Small voice," would whisper, something must be done; He asked advice of Fanny, and the maid Promptly and duteously lent her aid.

She told him, with that readiness of mind And quickness of perception which belong Exclusively to gentle womankind, That to submit to slanderers was wrong, And the best plan to silence and admonish them, Would be to give "a party"—and astonish them.