I'M gratify'd to think that you
Should wish to see my Songs,
As few would read my Book, who knew
To whom this Book belongs.
My mean estate, and birth obscure,
The ignorant will scorn;
Respect, tho' distant, from the good,
Makes that more lightly borne.
Tho' I could write with Seraph pen--
Tho' Angels did inspire,
None but the candid and humane
My writings would admire.
The proud wou'd cry, 'Such paltry works
'We will not deign to read;
'The Author's but a Shipwright's Wife,
'And was a serving Maid.'
Inur'd to hardships in my youth,
If want my age should crown,
I'll never beg the haughty's bread;
Death's milder than their frown.
You'll think but little of my Songs,
When you have read them o'er;
But say, 'They're well enough from her'--
And I expect no more.