"The pot goeth so long to the water til at length it commeth broken home."
Away, ye simple ones, away!
Bring no vain fancies hither;
The brightest dreams of youth decay,
The fairest roses wither.
Ay, since this fountain first was planned,
And Dryad learnt to drink,
Have lovers held, knit hand in hand,
Sweet parley at its brink.
From youth to age this waterfall
Most tunefully flows on,
But where, ay, tell me where are all
The constant lovers gone?
The falcon on the turtle preys,
And beardless vows are brittle;
The brightest dream of youth decays,—
Ah, love is good for little.
"Sweet maiden, set thy pitcher down,
And heed a Truth neglected:—
The more this sorry world is known,
The less it is respected.
"Though youth is ardent, gay, and bold,
It flatters and beguiles;
Though Giles is young, and I am old,
Ne'er trust thy heart to Giles.
"Thy pitcher may some luckless day
Be broken coming hither;
Thy doting slave may prove a knave,—
The fairest roses wither."