And trembling cries, “How cold it is!”
Now lisps Sir Fopling, tender weed,
All shivering like a shaken reed,
“How sharp the wind attacks my back!
John, put some list across that crack;
Go, sandbag all the sashes round,
And see there’s not an air-hole found.”
Indulgence pale
Tells this sad tale
Till he in furs enfolded is;