XLV.

But when to horror his amazement rose, A gentler strain the Beldam would rehearse, A tale of rural life, a tale of woes, The orphan-babes, and guardian uncle fierce. O cruel! will no pang of pity pierce That heart by lust of lucre sear'd to stone? For sure, if aught of virtue last, or verse, To latest times shall tender souls bemoan Those hopeless orphan-babes by thy fell arts undone.