Your bower shall be some giant’s cell,

Where phantoms pale shall with you dwell;

Each day to the frosty giant’s hall,

Comfortless, wretched, shall you crawl;

Instead of joy, and pleasure gay,

Sorrow and tears and sad dismay;

With some three-headed giant wed,

Or pine upon a lonely bed;

From morn to morn love’s secret fire

Shall gnaw your heart with vain desire;