CXLIII
Lo, as a careful housewife runs to catchOne of her feather’d creatures broke away,Sets down her babe, and makes all swift dispatchIn pursuit of the thing she would have stay;Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase,Cries to catch her whose busy care is bentTo follow that which flies before her face,Not prizing her poor infant’s discontent;So runn’st thou after that which flies from thee,Whilst I thy babe chase thee afar behind;But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me,And play the mother’s part, kiss me, be kind;So will I pray that thou mayst have thy ‘Will,’If thou turn back and my loud crying still.