"Ah, friend, 'tis true—this truth you lovers know,
In vain my structures rise, my gardens grow;
In vain fair Thames reflects the double scene
Of hanging woodlands, and of sloping green:
Joy lives not here; to happier seals it flies,
And only lives where Wortley casts her eyes."
"Pray, 'fair inspirer of the tender strains,' let me lay the offering at your feet."
"Under them, if you please," said she, her fine features expressing the most utter contempt; and, trampling the luckless compliment in the dust, she took Lord Hervey's hand, and, exclaiming,—"The atmosphere of this place is too oppressive for me," left the grotto: but part of her whisper to her companion was meant to be audible,—
"A sign-post likeness of the human race,
That is at once resemblance and disgrace."
