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When with soft and viewless feet
Like the wind, and no less fleet,
Flies me, as he flies away,
Gold, that arrant Runaway,
I pursue not: who is fain
To hunt a home a hateful bane?
Free from Runaway Gold, my breast
Is of sorrow dispossest;
I, to all the winds that blow,
All my cares abroad may throw:
I may take my lyre and raise
Jocund songs in Cupid's praise.
When my wary sprite disdains
To be trapped by Runaway's trains,
Suddenly he hies unto me
And with trouble would undo me;
Hoping that himself I'll take
And my darling lyre forsake.
Faithless Gold, thy labour's naught;
By thy snares I'll not be caught.
More delight than Gold doth bring
I can gain from my lute-string.
Thou men's hearts didst sow with guile,
And with envy them defile;
But the lyre. . . .