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FOURTH BOOK
They met still sooner.’Twas a year from thence
When Lucy Gresham, the sick semptress girl,
Who sewed by Marian’s chair so still and quick,
And leant her head upon the back to cough
More freely when, the mistress turning round,
The others took occasion to laugh out,—
Gave up at last.Among the workers, spoke
A bold girl with black eyebrows and red lips,—
‘You know the news?Who’s dying, do you think?
Our Lucy Gresham.I expected it
As little as Nell Hart’s wedding.Blush not, Nell,
Thy curls be red enough without thy cheeks;
And, some day, there’ll be found a man to dote
On red curls.—Lucy Gresham swooned last night,
Dropped sudden in the street while going home;
And now the baker says, who took her up
And laid her by her grandmother in bed,
He’ll give her a week to die in.Pass the silk.
Let’s hope he gave her a loaf too, within reach,
For otherwise they’ll starve before they die,
When Lucy Gresham, the sick semptress girl,
Who sewed by Marian’s chair so still and quick,
And leant her head upon the back to cough
More freely when, the mistress turning round,
The others took occasion to laugh out,—
Gave up at last.Among the workers, spoke
A bold girl with black eyebrows and red lips,—
‘You know the news?Who’s dying, do you think?
Our Lucy Gresham.I expected it
As little as Nell Hart’s wedding.Blush not, Nell,
Thy curls be red enough without thy cheeks;
And, some day, there’ll be found a man to dote
On red curls.—Lucy Gresham swooned last night,
Dropped sudden in the street while going home;
And now the baker says, who took her up
And laid her by her grandmother in bed,
He’ll give her a week to die in.Pass the silk.
Let’s hope he gave her a loaf too, within reach,
For otherwise they’ll starve before they die,
