Xxiv

Ah, do you mark the brown o' the cloud, made bright with fire Through and through? as, old wiles succeeding to desire, Quality (you and I) once more compassionate A hapless infant, doomed (fie on such partial fate!) To sink the inborn shame, waive privilege of sex, And posture as you see, support the nods and becks Of clowns that have their stare, nor always pay its price; An infant born perchance as sensitive and nice As any soul of you, proud dames, whom destiny Keeps uncontaminate from stigma of the sty She wallows in! You draw back skirts from filth like her Who, possibly, braves scorn, if, scorned, she minister To age, want, and disease of parents one or both; Nay, peradventure, stoops to degradation, loth That some just-budding sister, the dew yet on the rose, Should have to share in turn the ignoble trade,--who knows?