My own hand harmed me:
As foolish Phæton, by suit,
Did win his father’s wain;
So long’d I with Love’s shafts to shoot
Not prizing of the pain.
More wilful than skilful,
To fly I was so fond,
Desiring, aspiring,
To what was me beyond.
XIV.
Too late I learn’d who hews too high,
The chips my fall and chafe his eye;
Too late I sought the schools;
Too late I heard the Swallow screech;
Too late experience to teach,
The schoolmaster of fools:
Too late to find the nest I seek,
When all the Birds are flow’n:
Too late the stable door I steek,
When all the steeds are stown:
Too late ay their state ay,
All foolish folks espy,
Behind so they find so
Remeed, and so do I.
XV.
If I had ripely been advis’d
I had not rashly enterpriz’d
To soar with borrow’d quill;
Not yet essay’d the archer-craft,
To shoot myself with such a shaft,
As passeth Reason’s skill
From time I took my wilful wound,
I had no force to flee,
Then came I groaning to the ground,
Friend, welcome home, quoth he;
Where flew ye? whom slew ye?
Or who brings home the bopring?
I see now, quoth he, now,
Ye have been at the shooting
