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;