O, She's Warm! If This Be Magic,

How Sometimes Nature Will Betray Its Folly, Its Tenderness, And Make Itself A Pastime To Harder Bosoms!

I Stalk About Her Door, Like A Strange Soul Upon The Stygian Banks Staying For Waftage.

Come, Woo Me, Woo Me, For Now I Am In A Holiday Humor, And Like Enough To Consent.

How Soar Sweet Music Is, When Time Is Broke, And No Proportion Kept!

Death, As The Psalmist Saith, Is Certain To All, All Shall Die.