The sponge each morn appeared;
The bath, if plenished over-night,
Was frozen ere the morning light,
And more that frigid water-ache
Than unwashed days I feared,
Now while the milder zephyrs shake
Once more the winter's might,
My sponge, my bath, by loss endeared,
Shall dree no more a lonely weird;
And as young ducks to water take,