But, when the candle entered, I was cured.
On a beautiful and ingenious young Lady.
Minerva, one day, pray let nobody doubt it,
Rid an airing from Oxford six miles, or about it,
Where she ’spied a young damsel so blooming and fair,
That, ah, Venus! she cried, is your ladyship there?
Pray is not yon Oxford?—and lately you sware,
Neither you, nor aught like you, should ever come there:
Do you thus keep your promise? and am I defied?
The virgin drew near her, and, smiling replied,