NOW twenty springs had cloth'd the park with green,
Since LYDIA knew the blossoms of fifteen;
No lovers now her morning hours molest;
And catch her at her toilette half undrest.
The thund'ring knocker wakes the street no more,
Nor chairs, nor coaches crowd the silent door;
Nor at the window all her mornings pass,
Or at the dumb devotion of her glass:
Reclin'd upon her arm she pensive sate,
And curs'd th' inconstancy of man too late.