You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will,But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.
Speak not too well of one who scarce will knowHimself transfigured in its roseate glow;Say kindly of him what is, chiefly, true,Remembering always he belongs to you;Deal with him as a truant, if you will,But claim him, keep him, call him brother still!
If women could be fair and yet not fond,Or that their love were firm, not fickle still,I would not marvel that they make men bondBy service long to purchase their good will;But when I see how frail those creatures are,I laugh that men forget themselves so far.
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