Proverbs.

A poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

'Tis easier far a wreath to bind,
Than a good owner fort to find.
-
I kill'd a thousand flies overnight,
Yet was waken'd by one, as soon as twas light.
-
To the mother I give;
For the daughter I live.
-
A breach is every day,

By many a mortal storm'd;
Let them fall in the gaps as they may,

Yet a heap of dead is ne'er form'd.
-
What harm has thy poor mirror done, alas?
Look not so ugly, prythee, in the glass!

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