A dry cicale chirps to a lass making hay,
"Why creak'st thou, Tithonus?" quoth she. "I don't
play;
It doubles my toil, your importunate lay;
I've earned a sweet pillow, lo! Hesper is nigh;
I clasp a good wisp, and in fragrance I lie;
But thou art unwearied, and empty, and dry."