YOUNG BEAUTY

When at each door the ruffian winds

Have laid a dying man to groan,

And filled the air on winter nights

With cries of infants left alone;

And every thing that has a bed

Will sigh for others that have none:

On such a night, when bitter cold,

Young Beauty, full of love thoughts sweet,

Can redden in her looking-glass;

With but one gown on, in bare feet,

She from her own reflected charms

Can feel the joy of summer's heat.