LXII.

Making a woman like a porcupine,

Not to be rashly touched. But still more dread,

Oh ye! whose fate it is, as once 't was mine,

In early youth, to turn a lady's maid;—

I did my very boyish best to shine

In tricking her out for a masquerade:

The pins were placed sufficiently, but not

Stuck all exactly in the proper spot.

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