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In a brother's slayer, if thou meet him abroad, In a half-burned house, in a horse full swift— One leg is hurt and the horse is useless— None had ever such faith as to trust in them all.

Hope not too surely for early harvest, Nor trust too soon in thy son; The field needs good weather, the son needs wisdom, And oft is either denied.

The love of women fickle of will Is like starting o'er ice with a steed unshod, A two-year-old restive and little tamed, Or steering a rudderless ship in a storm, Or, lame, hunting reindeer on slippery rocks.

Clear now will I speak, for I know them both, Men false to women are found; When fairest we speak, then falsest we think, Against wisdom we work with deceit.

Soft words shall he speak and wealth shall he offer Who longs for a maiden's love, And the beauty praise of the maiden bright; He wins whose wooing is best.