E’en Winter paus’d that turf to spare;
Nor look’d the fiery Dog-star there.
And once more may Titania come,
With farewell, to her ancient home;
But, for the bee bird’s gaudy plume,[[69]]
Wav’d o’er her neck in quivering bloom,
Funereal spray of dismal hue,
Of cypress, or the baleful yew,
Join’d with the nightshade’s deadly flow’r,
Shall darkly o’er her forehead low’r.