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Small is the cooing dove, |
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But it flies aloft up to heaven. |
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My heart is wounded with sorrow, |
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And I think of our forefathers. |
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When the dawn is breaking, and I cannot sleep, |
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The thoughts in my breast are of our parents. |
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Men who are grave and wise, |
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Though they drink, are mild and masters of themselves; |
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But those who are benighted and ignorant, |
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Are devoted to drink, and more so daily. |
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Be careful, each of you, of your deportment; -- |
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What Heaven confers, [when once lost], is not regained. |
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In the midst of the plain there is pulse, |
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And the common people gather it. |
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The mulberry insect has young ones, |
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And the sphex carries them away. |
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Teach and train your sons, |
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And they will become good as you are. |
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Look at the wagtail, |
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Flying, and at the same time twittering. |
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My days are advancing; |
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Your months are going on. |
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Rising early and going to sleep late, |
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Do not disgrace those who gave you birth. |
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The greenbeaks come and go, |
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Pecking up grain about the stack-yard. |
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Alas for the distressed and solitary, |
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Deemed fit inmates for the prisons! |
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With a handful of grain I go out and divine, |
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How I may be able to become good. |
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We must be mild, and humble, |
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As if we were perched on trees. |
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We must be anxious and careful, |
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As if we were on the brink of a valley. |
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We must be apprehensive and cautious, |
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As if we were treading upon thin ice. |