The person of wisdom is the person of years.
On every thorn, delightful wisdom grows, In every rill a sweet instruction flows.
Give me, indulgent gods with mind serene, And guiltless heart, to range the sylvan scene, No splendid poverty, no smiling care, No well-bred hate, or servile grandeur, there.
In chambers deep, Where waters sleep, What unknown treasures pave the floor.
Of boasting more than of a bomb afraid, A soldier should be modest as a maid.
We bleed, we tremble; we forget, we smile - The mind turns fool, before the cheek is dry