XLVIII

2 0 00

XLVIII

To the assembly her they bear.

There the confusion, pressure, heat,

The crash of music, candles’ glare

And rapid whirl of many feet,

The ladies’ dresses airy, light,

The motley moving mass and bright,

Young ladies in a vasty curve,

To strike imagination serve.

’Tis there that arrant fops display

Their insolence and waistcoats white

And glasses unemployed all night;

Thither hussars on leave will stray

To clank the spur, delight the fair⁠—

And vanish like a bird in air.