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The Vicar of Wakefield.
daughter as before. "Do, my pretty Olivia," cried she, "let us have that little melancholy air your pappa was so fond of, your sister Sophy has already obliged us. Do child, it will please your old father." She complied in a manner so exquisitely pathetic as moved me.
When lovely woman stoops to folly,And finds too late that men betray,What charm can sooth her melancholy,What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt to cover,To hide her shame from every eye,To give repentance to her lover,And wring his bosom—is to die.
As she was concluding the last stanza, to which an interruption in her voice from sorrow gave peculiar softness, the appearance of Mr. Thornhill's equipage at a distance alarmed us all, but particularly en-creased
