A rosebud envelop'd in moss;
But thou art the sweet passion-flower,
For who would not slavery hug,
To pass but one exquisite hour
In the arms of Elizabeth Mugg?
VII.
When at Court, or some dowager's rout,
Her diamond aigrette meets our view,
She looks like a glow-worm dress'd out,
Or tulips bespangled with dew.