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.