Hunting the birds within a bosky grove,
A birder, yet a boy, saw winged Love
Perched on a box-tree branch; rejoicing saw
What seemed a large bird, and began to draw
His rods together, and he thought to snare
Love, that kept ever hopping here and there.
Then fretting that he could not gain his end,
Casting his rods down, sought his aged friend,
Who taught him bird-catching--his story told,
And showed Love perching. Smiled the ploughman old,
And shook his head, replying to the boy;
'Against this bird do not your rods employ;
It is an evil creature; shun him--flee;
Until you take him, happy will you be.
But if you ever come to manhood's day,
He that now flies you and still bounds away,
Will of himself, by no persuasion led,
Come suddenly and sit upon your head.'