ON DISCRETION.
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Dear friend, not every herb puts forth a flower; Nor every flower that blossoms, fruit doth bear; Nor hath each spoken word a virtue rare; Nor every stone in earth its healing power: This thing is good when mellow, that when sour; One seems to grieve, within doth rest from care; Not every torch is brave that flaunts in air; There is what dead doth seem, yet flame doth shower. Wherefore it ill behooveth a wise man His truss of every grass that grows to bind, Or pile his back with every stone he can, Or counsel from each word to seek to find, Or take his walks abroad with Dick and Dan: Not without cause I'm moved to speak my mind. |
ON DISORDERED WILL.
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What time desire hath o'er the soul such sway That reason finds nor place nor puissance here, Men oft do laugh at what should claim a tear, And over grievous dole are seeming gay. He sure would travel far from sense astray Who should take frigid ice for fire; and near Unto this plight are those who make glad cheer For what should rather cause their soul dismay. But more at heart might he feel heavy pain Who made his reason subject to mere will, And followed wandering impulse without rein; Seeing no lordship is so rich as still One's upright self unswerving to sustain, To follow worth, to flee things vain and ill. |