Naked Love did to thine eye,
Chloris, once to warm him, fly;
But its subtle flame, and light,
Scorch'd his wings, and spoiled his sight.
Forc'd from thence he went to rest
In the soft couch of thy breast:
But there met a frost so great,
As his torch extinguish'd straight.
When poor Cupid (thus constrain'd
His cold bed to leave) complain'd:
"'Las! what lodging's here for me,
If all ice and fire she be."
Sir Edmund Sherburne.