Metin
The tree, whose branches now are grown too big
For hands to bend, was set a slender twig;
When planted, to your slightest touch 'twould yield,
But now has fix'd possession of the field.
Consider, ere to love you give the reins,
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If she's a mistress worth your future pains.
While yet in breath, ere yet your nerves are broke,
Cast from your gen'rous neck the shameful yoke!
Check love's first symptoms, the weak foe surprise,
Who, once entrench'd, will all your arts despise.
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Think, wretch, what you hereafter must endure,
What certain toil, for an uncertain cure.
Slip not one minute; who defers to day,
To-morrow will be harden'd in delay.
'Tis love's old practice still to sooth you on
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Till your disease gets strength, and till your
Rivers small fountains have, and yet we find
Vast seas, of those small fountain'd rivers join'd.
Lock'd up in bark poor Myrrha ne'er had been,
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