AS some grave Matron bred on rural Downs,
Who at the mention of a Top-knot frowns,
And the proud Minxes of the Market-Towns;
Whose humble Senses are not much refin'd,
But us'd to Labour with a chearful Mind;
Clad in plain Coifs and Gown of russet Hue,
With home-spun Aprons of a decent Blue;
From the white Curds extracts the greener Whey,
Nor dreams of Fashion, Poetry, or Play;
From wicked Verse she turns her cautious Eyes,
And wonders People can delight in Lies:
At length her Landlord, the right noble Squire,
Takes her young Daughter at her own Desire;
Prefers the Damsel to attend his Spouse,
And she with Joy resigns her brindl'd Cows:
For  now prepares the smiling Dame,
While her sad Mother trembles at the Name:
But O! what Griefs attend the parting Leave,
No Muse can paint 'em, nor no Heart conceive:
In vain her Spouse or friendly Neighbour tries,
To quell the Sorrows in her streaming Eyes:
she fears will slight her  Gown,
And wear white Aprons in the sinful Town;
On the pure Ghost of  then she calls,
To guard her Child within its guilty Walls.