On Julia’s throwing a Snow-Ball.
Julia, young wanton, flung the gathered snow,
Nor feared I burning from the watery blow:
’Tis cold, I cried; but, ah! too soon I found,
Sent by that hand, it dealt a scorching wound.
Resistless fair! we fly thy power in vain,
Who turn’st to fiery darts the frozen rain.
Burn, Julia, burn like me, and that desire
With water which thou kindlest quench with fire.
To Zelinda.