Then gin you, fond flies! the cold to scorn,
And, crowing in pipes made of green corn,
You thinken to be lords of the year;
But eft, when ye count you freed from fear,
Comes the breme Winter with chamfred brows,
Full of wrinkles and frosty furrows,
Drearily shooting his stormy dart,
Which curdles the blood and pricks the heart:
Then is your careless courage accoyed,
Your careful herds with cold be annoyed: