Читать книгу The Golden Treasury - Various - Страница 64

The sea hath many thousand sands,

The sun hath motes as many;

The sky is full of stars, and Love

As full of woes as any:

Believe me, that do know the elf,

And make no trial by thyself!

It is in truth a pretty toy

For babes to play withal:—

But O! the honeys of our youth

Are oft our age's gall!

Self-proof in time will make thee know

He was a prophet told thee so;

A prophet that, Cassandra-like,

Tells truth without belief;

For headstrong Youth will run his race,

Although his goal be grief:—

Love's Martyr, when his heat is past,

Proves Care's Confessor at the last.

Anon.