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HE enters, and mute on the edge of a chair / Sits a thin-faced lady, a stranger there, / A type of decayed gentility; / And by some small signs he well can guess / That she comes to him almost breakfastless.
"I have called-I hope I do not err- / I am looking for a purchaser / Of some score volumes of the works / Of eminent divines I own,- / Left by my father-though it irks / My patience to offer them. " And she smiles / As if necessity were unknown; / "But the truth of it is that oftenwhiles / I have wished, as I am fond of art, / To make my rooms a little smart. " / And lightly still she laughs to him, / As if to sell were a mere gay whim, / And that, to be frank, Life were indeed / To her not vinegar and gall, / But fresh and honey-like; and Need / No household skeleton at all.