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.