CUDDIE. THENOT.
CUDDIE.
Ah for pity! will rank winter's rage
These bitter blasts never gin t'assuage?
The keen cold blows through my beaten hide,
All as I were through the body gride:
My ragged ronts all shiver and shake,
As doen high towers in an earthquake:
They wont in the wind wag their wriggle tails
Perk as a peacock; but now it availes.