Of fair Elfrida; She, whose happy Bard
Has with his gentle witchery so wrought
Upon our sense, that we can see no more
Her mad ambition, treacherous cruelty,
And purple robes of state with royal blood
Inhospitably stain’d; but in their place
Pure faith, soft manners, filial duty meek,
Connubial love, and stoles of saintly white.
Sure ’tis all false what poets fondly tell
Of rural innocence and village love;