What though the air be chill?
The beauteous Chloe never complains
As she roams by the purpling rill;
And the torn-tit coos to its gentle mate,
As Chloe industriously swings
With Daphnis, her beau, on the old front gate,
Attending to matters and things.
When the moon comes up, and her cold, pale light
Coquettes with the freezing streams,
What care these twain for the wintry night,