In vain would they ply Congreve's plug,
For nought could extinguish the rays
From the glance of divine Lady Mugg.
X.
O could I as Harlequin frisk,
And thou be my Columbine fair,
My wand should with one magic whisk
Transport us to Hanover Square;
St. George should lend us his shrine,
The parson his shoulders might shrug,