'Tis not for Spring or Summer sure;
Nor yet for Autumn; Love must have his Prime,
His Warmer Hearts, and Harvest time.
Till we have flourish'd, grown, & reap'd our Wishes.
What Conscience dares oppose our Kisses?
But when Time's colder hand leades us near home
Then let that Winter-Vertue come:
Frost is till then Prodigious; We may do
What Youth, and Pleasure Prompts us to.
When the Bawd had made an end of Repeating her Verses, the Goldsmith's Lady told her they were very Ingenious and Diverting Lines, and that she had oblig'd her extreamly by repeating them. And then pray'd her to go on with her Discourse which she lik'd very well. Upon which the Bawd thus proceeded.