And the fat melts at ev’ry pore!
While I, alas! decay’d and old,
With hunger pin’d, and stiff with cold,
With many a howl and hideous groan,
Tell the relentless woods my moan.
Pr’ythee (my happy friend!) impart
Thy wondrous, cunning, thriving art.”
“Why, faith, I’ll tell thee as a friend,
But first thy surly manners mend;
Be complaisant, obliging, kind,