And she only par complaisance touches the ground.
And when Bigottini in Psyche dishevels
Her black flowing hair, and by demons is driven,
Oh! who does not envy those rude little devils,
That hold her and hug her, and keep her from Heaven?
Then, the music—so softly its cadences die,
So divinely—oh, Dolly! between you and I,
It’s as well for my peace that there’s nobody nigh
To make love to me then—you’ve a soul, and can judge
What a crisis ’twould be for your friend, Betty Fudge!