What Pity 'tis, One That

I Have Play'd The Fool, The Gross Fool, To Believe The Bosom Of A Friend Will Hold A Secret Mine Own Could Not Contain.

One Grain Of Incense With Devotion Offer'd 's Beyond All Perfumes Of Sabaean Spices.

Detraction's A Bold Monster, And Fears Not To Wound The Fame Of Princes, If It Find But Any Blemish In Their Lives To Work On.

Be Wise; Soar Not Too High To Fall; But Stoop To Rise.

Greatness, With Private Men Esteem'd A Blessing, Is To Me A Curse; And We, Whom, For Our High Births, They Conclude The Happy Freemen, Are The Only Slaves. Happy The Golden Mean!