Of Psyche’s fate he took no comforting,
But only for a speedy death would pray;
And on his head his hair grew silver-white.
—Such on life’s topmost bough is sorrow’s blight,
When the stout heart is cankering to decay.
2
Which when his daughters learnt, they both were quick
Comfort and solace to their sire to lend.
But as not seldom they who nurse the sick
Will take the malady from them they tend,