LVII.

Fondly the wheeling fire-flies flew around her,

Those little glitterers of the London night;

But none of these possessed a sting to wound her—

She was a pitch beyond a coxcomb's flight.

Perhaps she wished an aspirant profounder;

But whatsoe'er she wished, she acted right;

And whether Coldness, Pride, or Virtue dignify

A Woman—so she's good—what does it signify?

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