Thy people mourn this maiden, and complain
That of all women least deservedly
She perishes for a most glorious deed.
'Who, when her own true brother on the earth
Lay weltering after combat in his gore,
Left him not graveless, for the carrion few
And raw devouring field dogs to consume--
Hath she not merited a golden praise?'
Such the dark rumour spreading silently.
Now, in my valuing, with thy prosperous life,
My father, no possession can compare.
Where can be found a richer ornament
For children, than their father's high renown?
Or where for fathers, than their children's fame?
Nurse not one changeless humour in thy breast,
That nothing can be right but as thou sayest.
Whoe'er presumes that he alone hath sense,
Or peerless eloquence, or reach of soul,
Unwrap him, and you'll find but emptiness.
'Tis no disgrace even to the wise to learn
And lend an ear to reason. You may see
The plant that yields where torrent waters flow
Saves every little twig, when the stout tree
Is torn away and dies. The mariner
Who will not ever slack the sheet that sways
The vessel, but still tightens, oversets,
And so, keel upward, ends his voyaging.
Relent, I pray thee, and give place to change.
If any judgement hath informed my youth,
I grant it noblest to be always wise,