Maxioms by Robert Pollok
Friend, for your epitaph I'm grieved,
Where still so much is said;
One half will never be read more
Friend, for your epitaph I'm grieved,
Where still so much is said;
One half will never be believed,
The other never read.
What mighty contests rise from trivial things.
What mighty contests rise from trivial things.
Or will you think, my friend, your bus'ness done
When, of a hundred thorns, you pull out one.
Or will you think, my friend, your bus'ness done
When, of a hundred thorns, you pull out one.
'Twas slander filled her mouth with lying words;
Slander, the foulest whelp of Sin.
'Twas slander filled her mouth with lying words;
Slander, the foulest whelp of Sin.
All seems infected that th' infected spy,
As all looks yellow to the jaundiced eye.
All seems infected that th' infected spy,
As all looks yellow to the jaundiced eye.
