No More Learning

Look as a lone lorn vine in a bare field sorrily growing,
Never an arm uplifts, no grape to maturity ripens, (50)
Only with headlong weight her tender body declining, 60
Bows, till topmost spray and roots meet feebly together ;
Her no peasant swain, nor bullock tendeth her ever :
Yet to the bachelor elm if marriage-fortune unite her,
Many a peasant tills and bullocks many about her; (55)
Such is a maid untoy'd with as yet, in loneliness aging ; 65
Wins she a           meet, in time's warm fulness
arriving,
So to the man more dear, and less unlovely to parents.