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.