Believe me that, howe'er well meant, A Good Resolve is always brief; Don't let your precious hours be spent In turning over a new leaf. Such leaves, like Nature's, soon decay, And then are only in the way.
The Road to—well, a certain spot, (A Road of very fair dimensions), Has, so the proverb tells us, got A parquet-floor of Good Intentions. Take care, in your desire to please, You do not add a brick to these.
For there may come a moment when You shall be mended willy-nilly, With many more misguided men, Whose skill is undermined with skilly. Till then procrastinate, my friend; "It Never is Too Late to Mend!"
"A Bad Workman Complains of his Tools."
This Pen of mine is simply grand, I never loved a pen so much; This Paper (underneath my hand) Is really a delight to touch; And never in my life, I think, Did I make use of finer ink.
The Subject upon which I write Is everything that I could choose; I seldom knew my Wits more bright, More cosmopolitan my Views; Nor ever did my Head contain So surplus a supply of Brain!
Potpourri.
There are many more Maxims to which I would like to accord a front place, But alas! I have got To omit a whole lot, For the lack of available space; And the rest I am forced to boil down and condense To the following Essence of Sound without Sense:
Now the Pitcher that journeys too oft To the Well will get broken at last. But you'll find it a fact That, by using some tact, Such a danger as this can be past. (There's an obvious way, and a simple, you'll own, Which is, if you're a Pitcher, to Let Well alone.)
Half a loafer is never well-bred, And Self-Praise is a Dangerous Thing. And the Mice are at play When the Cat is away, For a moment, inspecting a King. (Tho' if Care kills a Cat, as the Proverbs declare, It is right to suppose that the King will take care.)