Her Temper gentle as the purling Stream:
That’s true; but then with those the rest conspire,
Lighter she is than Air, and hot as Fire.
In Mrs. Cowser’s Window; in Russel-Street, Covent-Garden.
Love, ’tis said, his Arrows shooting,
Wounds is ever distributing;
But before I felt, I knew not,
That in Poison dipp’d they flew hot.
To Jenny I owe
That this Secret I know,