Long trade It were to tell, how the deluded maid A victim fell.

And now right greedily All hands are stretching forth the songs to buy, That are so tragical; which She, and She, Deals out, and _sings the while_; nor can there be A breast so obdurate here, that will hold back His contribution from the gentle rack Of Music's pleasing torture.

Irus' self, The staff-propt Beggar, his thin gotten pelf Brings out from pouch, where squalid farthings rest, And boldly claims his ballad with the best.
An old Dame only lingers.

To her purse The penny sticks.

At length, with harmless curse, "Give me," she cries.