And to the boy, delighted, gave his steed.
“I think my friend has well his mind express’d,
And I assent; such things are not a jest.”
“True,” said the Wife, “no longer he can hide
The truth that pains him by his wounded pride:
Your friend has found it not an easy thing,
Beneath his yoke this yielding soul to bring:
These weeping willows, though they seem inclined
By every breeze, yet not the strongest wind
Can from their bent divert this weak but stubborn kind;