Lesbia hath a waist refined,
But with such mod’rate drapery round it,
Who can tell her heart’s confined,
From breaking bounds, when Love hath found it.
Pillowed safe, my Lina’s heart
Within her miles of skirt reposes,
Beyond the flight of Cupid’s dart,—
Poor Love quite lost among the rows is.
Oh, my Crinolina dear,
Expansive and expensive Lina,