LEARN TO VALUE YOUR TIME 



Little, alas! they know or heed, 

 How far these beauties her's exceed! 

 Fair trees ! wheres'e'er your bark I wound, 

 No name shall but your own be found. 



When we have run our passion's heat, 

 Love hither makes his best retreat. 

 The gods, that mortal beauty chase, 

 Still in a tree did end their race; 

 Apollo hunted Daphne so, 

 Only that she might laurel grow; 

 And Pan did after Syrinx speed, 

 Not as a nymph, but for a reed. 



What wondrous life is this I lead ! 

 Ripe apples drop about my head; 

 The luscious clusters of the vine 

 Upon my mouth do crush their wine; 

 The nectarine, and curious peach, 

 Into my hands themselves do reach; 

 Stumbling on melons, as I pass, 

 Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass. 



Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, 

 Withdraws into its happiness; 



[41] 



