Whate’er may hap, no thought of wrath outsend;
This breedeth ill and nothing doth amend.
In spite of many wrongs thou may’st endure,
Of fame this oracle doth thee assure.
’Twould seem a jest to bid thee do aright,
For man, alas! is in a woful plight!
He gropes along in quest of Wisdom’s ray
And, ever seeking, often goes astray.
In noble deeds exert thy human might;
Let acts of kindness be thy best delight.