Pity, ye Gods, and thaw the rigid Frost,
My Hands are stiff, and all my Feeling lost.
The Moon with sharpen'd Horns looks coldly bright,
And thus augments the Chillness of the Night.
Bright icy Spangles gild the shining Oar,
And snowy Flakes have whit'ned all the Shore.
How curst the Fate! How hard the Fisher's Lot,
To toil for ever thus, and toil for nought?
Midst all the Gloom, and Horrors of the Night,
When rambling Elves, and shrieking Ghosts affright,
On restless Waters we are labouring tost,
To catch the falling Ice, and hoary Frost;
While the soft Dames of the luxurious Town
On yielding Beds are laid, and ev'ry Clown
When Night draws near, unyokes the willing Beast,
Then eats his fill; and thus by Heav'n blest,
On smelling heaps of Straw he takes unenvy'd Rest.
Or else deceives a while the Winter Nights
With pleasing Tales, and Stories feign'd of Sprites.
With waking Care, when we at length have caught
The mighty Prize, we so impatient sought;
The squeamish Town rejects it all with Scorn,
And empty we with fruitless Pain return.