That yet pronounced her beautiful and young;
The tongue that, seeming careless, ever praised;
The eye that, roving, on her person gazed;
The ready service, on the watch to please;
And all such sweet, small courtesies as these.
Still there was virtue, but a rolling stone
On a hill’s brow is not more quickly gone; 580
The slightest motion—ceasing from our care—
A moment’s absence—when we’re not aware—
When down it rolls, and at the bottom lies,