I had feared that the east wind, which well-nigh killed me,
Would have proved as destructive, sweet darling, to thee.
“But thou hast no cough, I may fairly suppose,
Such as I had all winter, delectable rose—
A cough to my heirs most enchanting to hear;
And so thou art blooming and beauteous, my dear!
“I’ll not leave thee, enchantress, to pine on the tree,
Thou shalt make a gay button-hole, loved one, for me.
This summer’s the last that will ever be thine,
And I somehow believe ’tis the last, too, of mine.