Page:The Village - Crabbe (1783).djvu/23

 Here sorrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan, And the cold charities of man to man. Whose laws indeed for ruin'd age provide, And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from pride; But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh, And pride embitters what it can't deny.

Say ye, opprest by some fantastic woes, Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose; Who press the downy couch, while slaves advance With timid eye, to read the distant glance; Who with sad prayers the weary doctor teaze To name the nameless ever-new disease; Who with mock patience dire complaints endure, Which real pain, and that alone can cure; How would ye bear in real pain to lie, Despis'd, neglected, left alone to die? Rh