LXIII.

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: