 | May Fair |  |
Now to the Marchioness I drive:
I find her rising—just alive;
Exhausted by the last night's rout—
The spirits in her lamp burnt out;
Upon her visage I inspect
Three balls, two suppers “most select.”
The shaking of her hand of snow
Still seems to meditate the throw:
I read upon her dazzling forehead
The very last rouleau she borrow'd.
I find her rising—just alive;
Exhausted by the last night's rout—
The spirits in her lamp burnt out;
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Three balls, two suppers “most select.”
The shaking of her hand of snow
Still seems to meditate the throw:
I read upon her dazzling forehead
The very last rouleau she borrow'd.
| May Fair | |