THE QUATRAINS OF
Friend! trouble not yourself about your lot,
Let futile care and sorrow be forgot;
Since this life's vesture crumbles into dust.
What matters stain of word or deed, or blot?
O thou who hast done ill, and ill alone,
And thinkest to find mercy at the throne,
Hope not for mercy! for good left undone
Cannot be done, nor evil done undone!
Count not to live beyond your sixtieth year,
To walk in jovial courses persevere;
And ere your skull be turned into a cup.
Let wine-cups ever to your hand adhere!
405. L. N.