But follow'd to his heart's content,
Blowing his finger as he went.
"Pray," said the satyr, "may I know
For what you blow your fingers so?"
"What! need you," said the man, "be told?—
To warm my fingers, 'numb'd with cold."
"Indeed!" was all his host replied,
Intent some pottage to provide,
Which heated well, with spice infused,
Was to his shivering guest produced: