Her Grace, too, passed for being an intrigante,

And somewhat méchante in her amorous sphere;

One of those pretty, precious plagues, which haunt

A lover with caprices soft and dear,

That like to make a quarrel, when they can't

Find one, each day of the delightful year:

Bewitching, torturing, as they freeze or glow,

And—what is worst of all—won't let you go: