  She spread her atlas petticoat So rare, so fine to see. Her bonnet was of Tuscan straw, Her shawl was Turkey red. She peacocked gay before men's eyes, This lady of degree, On slippered tiny feet, and ah! She wished that she were dead. At every ball, at every rout She was the toast of town; But no one knew who called her cold What cruel wound had she. The laughing gallant that she loved Had scorned her high renown, And now another bore his babe, And held it on her knee. |
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