In time the savage bull sustains the yoke, / In time all haggard hawks will stoop to lure. / In time small wedges cleave the hardest oak, / In time the flint is pierced with softest shower. |
My son - and what's a son? A thing begot / Within a pair of minutes, thereabouts, / A lump bred up in darkness. |
Oh eyes, no eyes, but fountains fraught with tears; O life, no life, but lively form of death; Oh world, no world, but mass of public wrongs |