Page:The works of Anna Laetitia Barbauld volume 1.djvu/286



Muses are turned gossips; they have lost The buskined step, and clear high-sounding phrase, Language of gods. Come then, domestic Muse, In slipshod measure loosely prattling on Of farm or orchard, pleasant curds and cream, Or drowning ^lies, or shoe lost in the mire By little whimpering boy, with rueful face; Come, Muse, and sing the dreaded Washing-Day. Ye who beneath the yoke of wedlock bend,