Now Laura moves along the joyous crowd,
Smiles in her eyes, and simpers on her lips;
To some she whispers, others speaks aloud;
To some she curtsies, and to some she dips;
Complains of warmth, and this complaint avow'd,
Her lover brings the lemonade,--she sips:
She then surveys, condemns, but pities still
Her dearest friends for being drest so ill.
One had false curls, another too much paint,
A third--where did she buy that frightful turban?
A fourth's so pale she fears she's going to faint,
A fifth's look's vulgar, dowdyish, and suburban,
A sixth's white silk has got a yellow tint,
A seventh's thin muslin surely will be her bane,
And lo! an eighth appears,--I'll see no more!
For fear, like Banquo's kings, they reach a score.

_Beppo._


She was blooming still, had made the best
Of time, and time return'd the compliment,
And treated her genteely, so that, drest,
She look'd extremely well where'er she went;
A pretty woman is a welcome guest,
And her brow a frown had rarely bent;
Indeed she shone all smiles, and seem'd to flatter
Mankind with her black eyes for looking at her.