Instead of the Song at p. 37

I WONDER, I swear, How a woman can bear A fop, that himself admires: Mere puppets for play, Of papier maché, Without either soul or desires.

One's pos'd in one's aim To give them a name— Things of such equivocal growth; Nor master, nor miss, But 'twixt that and this, Ridiculous copies of both.