As if dead beauties—who of old
Intrigued it here in patch and plume—
Again the ancient terrace strolled
With gallants, on whose rapiers gems
Once sneered in haughtiness of hues,
While Touchstone wit and apothegms
Laughed down the long cool avenues:
And there, where bowers of woodbine pave,
All heavily with sultry musk,
Two fountains of pellucid wave,