One thousand eight hundred and twelve!
Ha! whom do my peepers remark?
'Tis Hebe with Jupiter's jug;
O no, 'tis the pride of the Park,
Fair Lady Elizabeth Mugg.
II.
Why, beautiful nymph, do you close
The curtain that fringes your eye?
Why veil in the clouds of repose
The sun that should brighten our sky?