And I, when none your watchful glance deceive,
May make my Will, and think what I shall leave.” 
   Jesse, with fear, disgust, alarm, surprise,
Heard of these duties for her ears and eyes;
Heard by what service she must gain her bread,
And went with scorn and sorrow to her bed. 
   Jane was a servant fitted for her place,
Experienced, cunning, fraudful, selfish, base;
Skill’d in those mean humiliating arts
That make their way to proud and selfish hearts: 
By instinct taught, she felt an awe, a fear,
For Jesse’s upright, simple character;
Whom with gross flattery she awhile assail’d,
And then beheld with hatred when it fail’d;
Yet, trying still upon her mind for hold,
She all the secrets of the mansion told;
And, to invite an equal trust, she drew
Of every mind a bold and rapid view;
But on the widow’d Friend with deep disdain,
And rancorous envy, dwelt the treacherous Jane: 
In vain such arts;—­without deceit or pride,
With a just taste and feeling for her guide,
From all contagion Jesse kept apart,
Free in her manners, guarded in her heart. 
   Jesse one morn was thoughtful, and her sigh
The Widow heard as she was passing by;
And—­“Well!” she said, “is that some distant swain,
Or aught with us, that gives your bosom pain? 
Come, we are fellow-sufferers, slaves in thrall,
And tasks and griefs are common to us all;
Think not my frankness strange:  they love to paint
Their state with freedom, who endure restraint;
And there is something in that speaking eye
And sober mien that prove I may rely: 
You came a stranger; to my words attend,
Accept my offer, and you find a friend;
It is a labyrinth in which you stray,
Come, hold my clue, and I will lead the way. 
   “Good Heav’n! that one so jealous, envious, base,
Should be the mistress of so sweet a place;
She, who so long herself was low and poor,
Now broods suspicious on her useless store;
She loves to see us abject, loves to deal
Her insult round, and then pretends to feel: 
Prepare to cast all dignity aside,
For know, your talents will be quickly tried;
Nor think, from favours past a friend to gain, —
’Tis but by duties we our posts maintain: 
I read her novels, gossip through the town,
And daily go, for idle stories down;
I cheapen all she buys, and bear the curse
Of honest tradesmen for my niggard purse;
And, when for her this meanness I display,
She cries, ‘I heed not what I throw away;’
Of secret bargains I endure the shame,
And stake my credit for our fish and game;
Oft has she smiled to hear ’her generous soul
Would gladly give, but stoops to my control:’ 
Nay!  I have heard her, when she chanced to come
Where I contended for a petty sum,
Affirm ’twas painful to behold such care,
‘But Issop’s nature is to pinch and spare:’ 
Thus all the meanness of the house is mine,