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For other versions of this work, see An Idler.


She cannot wind the distaff,
She can nor bake nor brew;
Her hands are indeed too dainty
Such labors to pursue.

She cares not to follow the harvest,
She neither can sow nor glean,
But waits for the weary reapers
With cheerful calm serene.

Commanding all to serve her,
From service she is free;
But, ah, my babe so helpless
Is health and wealth to me!