Foy thundered away; and—ah, your waist
Pricked me well with a truant pin!
Every one ogled you. At Prado’s,
Where you and your briefless barrister dined,
You were so fair that the roses, I thought,
Turned to look at you from behind.
They seemed to whisper: “How handsome she is!
What wavy tresses! what sweet perfume!
Under her mantle she hides her wings;
Her flower of a bonnet is just in bloom!”