JOHN JONES.
19
VII.
(He'll think some day, your lover) so little to do!
Such infinite days to wear out, once begun!
Since the hand its glove holds, and the footsole its shoe—
Overhead too there's always the sun!'
VIII.
Of good counsel, wise hints—'where the trap lurks, walk warily—
Squeeze the fruit to the core ere you count on the juice!
For the graft may fail, shift, wax, change colour, wane, vary, lie—'
You were cautious, God knows—to what use?