I hate the appellation.
The blood runs chill about my heart,
I’m choak’d with sore vexation.
Last night when at the ball I danc’d,
My air was counted charming;
My eyes gave pain where’er they glanc’d,
Each gesture prov’d alarming.
Philander saw, their pow’r confest,
And with love tales did tease me!
I sigh’d, I frown’d, he was distress’d,