The poetical works of John Trumbull . | ||
But now the time was come, our fair
Should all the plagues of passion share,
And after ev'ry heart she'd won,
By sad disaster lose her own.
So true the ancient proverb sayeth,
‘Edge-tools are dang'rous things to play with;’
The fisher, ev'ry gudgeon hooking,
May chance himself to catch a ducking;
The child that plays with fire, in pain
Will burn its fingers now and then;
And from the dutchess to the laundress,
Coquettes are seldom salamanders.
Should all the plagues of passion share,
And after ev'ry heart she'd won,
By sad disaster lose her own.
So true the ancient proverb sayeth,
‘Edge-tools are dang'rous things to play with;’
85
May chance himself to catch a ducking;
The child that plays with fire, in pain
Will burn its fingers now and then;
And from the dutchess to the laundress,
Coquettes are seldom salamanders.
The poetical works of John Trumbull . | ||