Better is none | than too big a sacrifice,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
So Thund of old wrote | ere man’s race began,
Where he rose on high | when home he came.
* * * * * *
[147]. The songs I know | that king’s wives know not,
Nor men that are sons of men;
The first is called help, | and help it can bring thee
In sorrow and pain and sickness.
[148]. A second I know, | that men shall need