A SONNET BY RONSARD.
When thou art deep in years, at eve, by the wick's flare
Winding the skeins and spinning, seated near the blaze,
Shalt say, singing my verse, and filled with self-amaze,
“Ronsard was loud of me in days when I was fair.”
Then not a maid thou hast, but, of such news aware
(On whom long half-asleep the weight of labour weighs),
At sound of Ronsard straight her head shall raise
Calling thy name much blest that deathless praise to wear.
I shall be under earth: my boneless wraith shall keep
Amid the myrtle shades its everlasting sleep:
You squatted at the hearth will be a sour old wife:
Live to regret my love and your too haughty scorn,
Or, if you take my word, wait not the morrow's morn,
But timely cull to-day the roses of sweet life.
