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A son is better, though late he be born, And his father to death have fared; Memory-stones seldom stand by the road Save when kinsman honors his kin.

Two make a battle, the tongue slays the head; In each furry coat a fist I look for.

He welcomes the night whose fare is enough, (Short are the yards of a ship,) Uneasy are autumn nights; Full oft does the weather change in a week, And more in a month's time.

A man knows not, if nothing he knows, That gold oft apes begets; One man is wealthy and one is poor, Yet scorn for him none should know.

Among Fitjung's sons saw I well-stocked folds,— Now bear they the beggar's staff;