in courts,
  Pass’d all their precious hours in plays, and sports,
  Till death behind came stalking on, unseen,
  And wither’d (like the storm) the freshness of their green. 
  These, and their mates, enjoy their present hour,
  And therefore pay their homage to the Flower:  570
  But knights in knightly deeds should persevere,
  And still continue what at first they were;
  Continue, and proceed in honour’s fair career. 
  No room for cowardice, or dull delay;
  From good to better they should urge their way. 
  For this with golden spurs the chiefs are graced,
  With pointed rowels arm’d to mend their haste;
  For this with lasting leaves their brows are bound;
  For laurel is the sign of labour crown’d,
  Which bears the bitter blast, nor shaken falls to ground:  580
  From winter winds it suffers no decay,
  For ever fresh and fair, and every month is May. 
  Even when the vital sap retreats below,
  Even when the hoary head is hid in snow,
  The life is in the Leaf, and still between
  The fits of falling snow appears the streaky green. 
  Not so the Flower, which lasts for little space,
  A short-lived good, and an uncertain grace;
  This way, and that, the feeble stem is driven,
  Weak to sustain the storms and injuries of heaven. 590
  Propp’d by the spring, it lifts aloft the head,
  But of a sickly beauty, soon to shed;
  In summer living, and in winter dead. 
  For things of tender kind, for pleasure made,
  Shoot up with swift increase, and sudden are decay’d.

    With humble words, the wisest I could frame,
  And proffer’d service, I repaid the dame;
  That, of her grace, she gave her maid to know
  The secret meaning of this moral show. 
  And she, to prove what profit I had made 600
  Of mystic truth, in fables first convey’d,
  Demanded, till the next returning May,
  Whether the Leaf or Flower I would obey? 
  I chose the Leaf; she smiled with sober cheer,
  And wish’d me fair adventure for the year,
  And gave me charms and sigils, for defence
  Against ill tongues that scandal innocence: 
  But I, said she, my fellows must pursue,
  Already past the plain, and out of view.

    We parted thus; I homeward sped my way, 610
  Bewilder’d in the wood till dawn of day;
  And met the merry crew who danced about the May. 
  Then late refresh’d with sleep, I rose to write
  The visionary vigils of the night.

    Blush, as thou may’st, my little book, with shame,
  Nor hope with homely verse to purchase fame;
  For such thy maker chose; and so design’d
  Thy simple style to suit thy lowly kind.

* * * * *

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