These locks, which fondly thus entwine, 
In firmer chains our hearts confine, 
Than all th' unmeaning protestations 
Which swell with nonsense, love orations. 
Our love is fix'd, I think we've prov'd it; 
Nor time, nor place, nor art have mov'd it; 
Then wherefore should we sigh and whine, 
With groundless jealousy repine; 
With silly whims, and fancies frantic, 
Merely to make our love romantic? 
Why should you weep, like Lydia Languish, 
And fret with self-created anguish? 
Or doom the lover you have chosen, 
On winter nights to sigh half frozen; 
In leafless shades, to sue for pardon, 
Only because the scene's a garden? 
For gardens seem, by one consent, 
(Since Shakespeare set the precedent; 
Since Juliet first declar'd her passion) 
To form the place of assignation. 
Oh! would some modern muse inspire, 
And seat her by a sea-coal fire; 
Or had the bard at Christmas written, 
And laid the scene of love in Britain; 
He surely, in commiseration, 
Had chang'd the place of declaration. 
In Italy, I've no objection, 
Warm nights are proper for reflection; 
But here our climate is so rigid, 
That love itself, is rather frigid: 
Think on our chilly situation, 
And curb this rage for imitation. 
Then let us meet, as oft we've done, 
Beneath the influence of the sun; 
Or, if at midnight I must meet you, 
Within your mansion let me greet you: 
There, we can love for hours together, 
Much better, in such snowy weather, 
Than plac'd in all th' Arcadian groves, 
That ever witness'd rural loves; 
Then, if my passion fail to please, 
Next night I'll be content to freeze; 
No more I'll give a loose to laughter, 
But curse my fate, for ever after.