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 Strife hath a twofold nature, mother Earth Having produced two at a single birth: One, born of Night, the cause of bloody wars, Fights, broils, dissensions, and domestic jars; The other birth, for nobler ends designed, With emulation fills the human mind. He who with jealous eye beholds the gain That fills the coffers of some neighboring swain, Fired by the example, gives the warning heed, And drives his oxen with redoubled speed. Thus zeal and industry our efforts claim, And fill the breast with love of wealth and fame. Each art or craft, impelled by jealous fear, Strives for the mastery in its proper sphere: His busy wheel the jealous potter plies, The jealous artist with his rival vies; Even poets, stirred by envy, think it wrong To share the glory of immortal song.

Let humble swains, who live by honest toil, Confine their efforts to the generous soil, And from the wrangling courts of law refrain, They bring but loss and trouble in their train. He, who all-fruitful Ceres takes to wife, Has little time to spend in legal strife; But if he does, why then the simple goose But heaps up riches for another's use. In all your acts yield to the law of love And equal justice; 'tis approved by Jove. Did every mortal by this precept live, Those legal harpies soon would cease to thrive. Fools! who with all their learning cannot tell The worth of mallows or of asphodel,