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 And then once more, on all her Stores, look round And draw a sigh so piteous and profound, That told, "Alas! how hard from these to part, And for new Hopes and Habits form the Heart! What shall I do (she cried) my Peace of Mind, To gain in dying, and to die resigned?"
 * 'Hear,' we return'd;—'these Bawbles cast aside,

Nor give thy a Rival, in thy Pride; Thy Closets shut, and ope thy Kitchen's Door; There' own thy Failings, here invite the Poor; A Friend of Mammon let thy Bounty make, For Widows' Prayers, thy Vanities forsake; And let the Hungry, of thy Pride, partake: Then shall thy inward Eye with joy survey, The angel Mercy tempering Death's delay!'
 * Alas! 'twas hard; the Treasures still had charms,

Hope still its Flattery, Sickness its Alarms; Still was the same unsettled, clouded. View, And the same plaintive Cry, "What shall I do?"
 * Nor change appeared; for, when her Race was run.

Doubtful we all exclaim'd, "What has been done?" Apart she liv'd, and still she lies alone; Yon earthly Heap, awaits the flattering Stone, On which Invention shall be long employ'd To shew the various worth of


 * Next to these Ladies, but in nought allied,

A noble Peasant,, died. Noble he was, contemning all things mean, His truth unquestioned, and his Soul serene: