When I in praise of babies speak,
  She coldly smiles like winter's snow,
And looks on me with no soft eye:
  Yet I have seen her kiss them so,
Her wealth of rapture made them cry.

Sometimes it seems her blood's too cold
  For Love to even wet his toes,
Much less to paddle all about;
  But when she's kissed till her eyes close,
That god is warmer in than out.

I laugh, when she for other men
  Confesses love; but when she says
She hated one man she could kill,
  My heart is all one jealous blaze,
For, pity me, she hates him still!