Snapping the wind in her passion,
Who is to turn her?
None that would seek her need strain them,
In her month they shall find her.
Save thou thy feet from the peeling, 25
Thy throat from thirst!
But thou sayest, “No use![158]
For with strangers I'm fallen in love,
Them must I after!”
Like the shame of the thief when he's caught, 26