WHEN you the sunburnt pilgrim see, Fainting with thirst, haste to the springs, Mark how at first with bended knee He courts the crystal nymphs, and flings His body to the earth, where he Prostrate adores the flowing deity. But when his sweaty face is drench'd In her cool waves, when from her sweet Bosom his burning thirst is quench'd, Then mark how with disdainful feet He kicks her banks, and from the place That thus refresh'd him, moves with sullen pace. So shalt thou be despis'd, fair maid, When by the sated lover tasted; What first he did with tears invade Shall afterwards with scorn be wasted: When all thy virgin-springs grow dry, When no streams shall be left but in thine eye. |