“Alas! Thou wast a treasure valued by my heart! I loved to pour my soul forth in thy ears apart! A kind of milk is speech; its teat the soul,--or gland. To make it freely flow requires a loving hand. If but the hearer listen, hang upon his lips, The speaker, though a corpse, grows eloquent, ne’er trips. Attentive audiences still confer the powers, To stutterers and stammerers, to speak for hours. 135 If strangers should break in upon my privacy, My womenkind retire, from mere delicacy. But if my visitor be confidant and kin, They come forth freely, play about with gladsome din. Whatever best they know, of work, or play, or jest, They do and say, for show, before a welcome guest. What use of sound of harp, of bass or treble notes, For deaf or senseless ear, that on no music dotes?” “Our God has made the earth, the sky, and all between; His light, and eke His fire, upon that stage is seen. 140 The Lord without a purpose gave not musk its scent. For odour ’twas, not for diseased nostrils, meant. The earth He stretched forth, and fixed as man’s abode. The heavens He upreared to be by angels rode. Th’ inferior creature, man, ’s at strife with all on high; He bids for every place he sees, for all he’ll sigh.” “Dear wife! Chaste, modest matron! Art thou well prepared Into the tomb to sink, ere thy doomed hour’s declared? Were I to fill the earth with pearls of countless price, Thy daily bread thee failing, could they thee entice? 145 Then cease from all contention, strive not ’gainst the Lord, Or separation from thee will be my last word. What taste have I for strife, contention, or annoy, When even in peacemakings I’ve no longer joy? Be quiet! Hold thy peace! Or, by the Lord of life, I’ll quit this tent for ever; thou’lt not be my wife! Much better to walk barefoot than with shoe too small! The toil of travel’s sweeter than strife in one’s wall!”