  (Bion IV, 14.) Lo, the fowler’s little lad, Through the woodland straying, Sight of winged Love hath had In the branches playing. “Ah,” he cries, “a bonnie prey!” Sets his bow to wing him. Cupid blows the dart away That to earth would bring him. Now the boy in angry woe Casts away his quiver To his master straight doth go And the tale deliver. Saith the sage, “Nay, not for thee Such a bird to harry. From the haunted forest flee Where such creatures tarry. “Though it now escape thy dart Let not tears be flowing, It will light upon thy heart Ere thy beard be growing.” |
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