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. [2]