For whom dost thou thy golden tresses knot
Neat in thine elegance? How oft he’ll weep
Thy faith and gods as mutable! The deep
How oft, poor simple novice, he’ll admire
Blackening beneath the savage tempest’s ire,
Who now enjoys thee in thy golden days,
Unconscious how the changing wind betrays;
Ah, credulous! and fondly hopes to find
Thee his for ever, and for ever kind.
Woe unto whom thou glitterest untried!