‘ Tis pity, ev'ry maiden knows,
Just as she cools, Love warmer grows;
But, if the chill be too severe,
Trust me, he'll wither in a tear.
Thus will the spring-flow'r bud and blow,
Wrapp'd round in many a fold of snow;
But, if an ice-wind pierce the sky,
‘ Twill drop upon its bed, and die!