The cold air nips. The nose and ears.Of Winter’s wind. I am not safe.My numbéd limbs. Shiver with fear.Icy fingers. Fumble to chafe.Snow drops. Eyes close. My last. Repose.
O flighty fidelity! How can your strongArm that motivates my love so soon dostRelinquish me? And now it keeps so longMy mind from her til all that verse be lost?So quickly dost that love turn rank with rustAnd morph to scorn. That cruel Ovid did sayThat peasants may turn to frogs or that lustForbidden…