I love a girl more fickle than a straw: like other girls there's no relying on her faith more than the word of the mouse that fell from a beam into the beer.
The mouse leaped in the new-brewed beer, and what did the good gray cat
do, but spring into the vat where the mouse drowned and lift up its head
out of the beer? But the cat did not leap in lest the mouse should
drown, but because of the oath he swore, when he was lifted out of the
beer, to please the cat before returning up into the thatch. But when
the mouse was out, he went up among the laths, and taking refuge in the
roof, said nothing from up there.
"Mouse, keep your word : you've gone too far!"
"The oath I gave in the vat, does not bind me here: and a creature I trusted when I was drunk, I do not trust next day."
And so, my dear, there is no trust in mice, and so indeed Gwen, he who trusts them is deceived.
