The methodist in her peculiar lot,
The world forgetting, by the world forgot,
Though single happy, tho' alone is proud,
She thinks of heav'n (she thinks not of a crowd)
And if she ever feels a vap'rish qualm,
Some  or some holy balm,
The pious prophet of her sect distils,
And her pure soul seraphic rapture fills;
Grace shines around her with serenest beams,
And whisp'ring W*** prompts her golden dreams.