WHEN Phoebus saw a rugged bark beguile His love, and his embraces intercept, The leaves, instructed by his grief to smile, Taking fresh growth and verdure as he wept: 'How can', saith he, 'my woes expect release, When tears the subject of my tears increase!' His chang'd, yet scorn-retaining Fair he kiss'd, From the lov'd trunk plucking a little bough; And though the conquest which he sought he miss'd, With that triumphant spoil adorns his brow. Thus this disdainful maid his aim deceives: Where he expected fruit he gathers leaves. |