To-day, fair Thisbe, winsome girl!
 Strays o'er the meads where daisies blow, 
 Or, ling'ring where the brooklets purl, 
 Laves in the cool, refreshing flow.
 To-morrow, Thisbe, with a host
 Of amorous suitors in her train, 
 Comes like a goddess forth to coast
 Or skate upon the frozen main.
 To-day, sweet posies mark her track, 
 While birds sing gayly in the trees; 
 To-morrow morn, her sealskin sack
 Defies the piping polar breeze.
 So Doris is to-day enthused
 By Thisbe's soft, responsive sighs, 
 And on the morrow is confused
 By Thisbe's cold, repellent eyes.