In venting saws 'bout maiden modesty—
And strict decorum,—from some musty volume:
But the clipp'd wings will quickly sprout again;
And whilst the doating father thinks his child
A paragon of worth and bashfulness,—
Her thoughts are hovering round the precious form
Of her sweet furnace-breathing Don Diego!—
And he, all proof 'gainst dews and nightly blasts,
In breathless expectation waits to see
His panting Rosa at the postern door;—