LOOK, how he shakes for cold! How pale his lips are grown! Wherein his limbs to fold Yet mantle has he none. His pretty feet and hands (Of late more pure and white Than is the snow That pains them so) Have lost their candour quite. His lips are blue (Where roses grew), He's frozen ev'rywhere: All th' heat he has Joseph, alas! Gives in a groan; or Mary in a tear. |