I wish my dear friend to come to-morrow to breakfast and dine with me, as I am going out for some days. I long to see her, and the last dish of grapes are still on the vines, and must be finished to-morrow. My breath is short, my cruse empty, my oil fails, my heart is chilled, my old man is alive, and the devil is not idle.
When I set out on a Saturday eve my mind and head swarms alive, my breasts at times so full that my milk runs to my navel, my locks hang in my neck, my cruse springs, the oil flows, the cup is not empty, nor the meal diminished. But by Tuesday evening I am shorn, stripped, milked, and sweated, till all my moisture is turned into the drought of summer; and I look like a thief naked, and ashamed, barren, dry, empty, and abashed. This office, this character; and this expenditure, falls only to the care and share of shepherds, stewards, nurses, and servitors. The children keep all they get, they deal not, trade not, spend not; nor empty themselves to feed others. Thank you for my pot, and I have got a very great literary curiosity for you:
Dear Ann, adieu.
THE COALHEAVER.
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