Chapter 1875 of 1964 · 61 words · ~1 min read

XLVII.

She also had a twilight tinge of "_Blue_," Could write rhymes, and compose more than she wrote, Made epigrams occasionally too Upon her friends, as everybody ought. But still from that sublimer azure hue,[787] So much the present dye, she was remote; Was weak enough to deem Pope a great poet, And what was worse, was not ashamed to show it.