When you the sun-burnt pilgrim see,
  Fainting with thirst, haste to the springs ;
Mark how at first with bended knee 
  He courts the crystal nymphs, and flings 
His body to the earth, where he
Prostrate adores the flowing deity.

But when his sweaty face is drench'd
  In her cool waves, when from her sweet 
Bosom his burning thirst is quench'd ; 
  Then mark how with disdainful feet
He kicks her banks, and from the place 
That thus refresh'd him, moves with sullen pace. 

So shalt thou be despis'd, fair Maid,
  When by the sated Lover tasted ;
What first he did with tears invade,
  Shall afterwards with scorn be wasted ;
When all the virgin springs grow dry,
When no stream shall be left, but in thine eye.