Still, with dry eyes, the Tory Celia sate;
But, though her pride forbade her eyes to flow,
The gushing waters found a vent below.
Tho ’n secret, yet with copious streams she mourns,
Like twenty river-gods, with all their urns.
Let others screw on hypocritic face,
She shows her grief in a sincerer place;
Here Nature reigns, and passion, void of art,
For this road leads directly to the heart.”
(Nick Rowe.)