In better times, when love was fire,
I held the reins, I leapt the mire.
Cold was cold; it could be felt,
but had no sting, and left no welt.
So western now, so lost and loose,
my heart and mind have called a truce.
The cold is cold, the wind like ice,
All fools get taken- once or twice,
and need be shown their own device,
For fools be known by their advice.