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.