Yet, as I wonder and admire,
The grace is gone, the glory dead;
And now it is but mean attire
Upon a shrivel’d beldame spread;
Laid loathsome on a pauper’s bed,
Where wretchedness and woe are found,
And the faint putrid odour shed
By all that’s foul and base around!
XXXII.
A garden this? oh, lovely breeze!