The narrow range, the doubtful tone,
All was excused awhile, because
It seemed a creature of her own.
Perfection tires; the new in old,
The mended wrecks that need her skill,
Amuse her. If the truth be told,
She loves the triumph of her will.
With this, she dares herself persuade,
She’ll be for many a month content,
Quite sure no duchess ever played