That thirst the weed is wont in her to raise.
With this her belly propped, its pain expels;
Intestine wind no more her stomach swells;
A freer blood runs leaping through her frame,
New heat, new strength recalls the ancient game.
And should you hear she’s dead, the cause you’ll know
Was that Geneva in her jug ran low.”
In the Dunciad, which Pope wrote in 1726 (book iii., l. 143), we read,—
“A second see, by meeker manners known,
And modest as the maid that sips alone;