Stript of their green our Groves appear,
Our vales lie buried deep in snow;
The blowing north controls the dire,
A nipping cold chills all below.
The frost has glaz’d our deepest streams,
Phoebus withdraws his kindly beams.
Yet winter blest be thy return,
Thou’st brought the swain
For whom I us’d to mourn;
And in thy ice with pleasing flames we burn.
Too soon the sun’s reviving heat,
Will thaw thy ice and melt thy snow,
Trumpets will sound, and drums will beat,
And tell me the dear, dear youth must go;
Then must my weak unwilling arms,
Resign him up to stronger charms;
What flowers, what sweets, what beauteous thing,
When Damon’s gone, can ease or pleasure bring?
Winter brings Damon, winter is my spring.