The Ghost, if Ghost it were, seemed a sweet soul

As ever lurked beneath a holy hood:

A dimpled chin,[OH] a neck of ivory, stole

Forth into something much like flesh and blood;

Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl,

And they revealed—alas! that e'er they should!

In full, voluptuous, but not o'ergrown bulk,

The phantom of her frolic Grace—Fitz-Fulke! ⁸³