In a naiad’s glass I saw,
Pleased, my graces touched with awe;
And “These royal flowers shall be
Forged to links, my boy, for thee,”
So I said. From morn till eve
Through my haunts the shepherds grieve;
But the urchin bursts amain
Shouting from my bloomy chain,
Bursts and leaves me all forlorn,
Pricked and bleeding with a thorn.