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: