Page:Cherry and the sloe.pdf/7

Rh My own hand harmed me: As foolish Phæton, by suit, Did win his father’s wain; So long’d I with Love’s shafts to shoot Not prizing of the pain. More wilful than skilful, To fly I was so fond, Desiring, aspiring, To what was me beyond.

Too late I learn’d who hews too high, The chips my fall and chafe his eye; Too late I sought the schools; Too late I heard the Swallow screech; Too late experience to teach, The schoolmaster of fools: Too late to find the nest I seek, When all the Birds are flow’n: Too late the stable door I steek, When all the steeds are stown: Too late ay their state ay, All foolish folks espy, Behind so they find so Remeed, and so do I.

If I had ripely been advis’d I had not rashly enterpriz’d To soar with borrow’d quill; Not yet essay’d the archer-craft, To shoot myself with such a shaft, As passeth Reason’s skill From time I took my wilful wound, I had no force to flee, Then came I groaning to the ground, Friend, welcome home, quoth he; Where flew ye? whom slew ye? Or who brings home the bopring? I see now, quoth he, now, Ye have been at the shooting