Chapter XCII

Believe not, gentle maid, that all is won
When first thou dost behold thy lover dear;
Nor yet that all thy path lies fair and clear
From love’s first charm until its work be done.
A fickle child thou comest thereupon,
Whom thou mayst learn in time to view with fear.
Cupid, though young, may cast a shadow drear,
Whose chilling gloom shall hide thee from the sun.
A lovely valley may thy footsteps lure,
All filled with flowers that for the fair are grown,
Yet ’neath its depth lie pitfalls for the pure,
And deep contagions that are oft unknown.
Then happy art thou if thou holdst love sure,
Thus to escape the menace of his frown.