(_Hippol._, _Eurip._, 252–266.)
LONG life hath taught me many things, and shown
That lukewarm loves for men who die are best,
Weak wine of liking let them mix alone,
Not Love, that stings the soul within the breast;
Happy, who wears his love-bonds lightliest,
Now cherished, now away at random thrown!
Grievous it is for other’s grief to moan,
Hard that my soul for thine should lose her rest!
Wise ruling this of life: but yet again
Perchance too rigid diet is not well;
He lives not best who dreads the coming pain
And shunneth each delight desirable:
_Flee thou extremes_, this word alone is plain,
Of all that God hath given to Man to spell!