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A pleasant ill is this disease of love,

And 'twere not ill to sketch its likeness thus:

When sharp cold spreads through all the æther clear,

And children seize a crystal icicle,

At first they firmly hold their new-found joy;

But in the end the melting mass nor cares

To slip away, nor is it good to keep:

So those that love, the self-same strong desire

Now leads to action, now to idleness.

What virtue gains alone abides with us.

The hearts of good men are not quickly bowed.

Still where the right of free, true speech is gone,

And the worse counsel in a state prevails,

Blunders make shipwreck of security.

And how can I, a mortal, fight with fate

That comes from heaven, when danger presses hard,

And hope helps not?

The tongue is held in honour by such men

As reckon words of more account than deeds.

Come, let us quickly go: it cannot be

That any blame should fall on righteous haste.

It brings some pain, I know, but one must try,

As best one may, to bear the ills of life.

Needs must we find some healing from these things.