i 4 8 MORE POT-POURRI 



sure that up to now I have never got back in mushrooms 

 what I have spent in spawn. Of course the fault is mine, 

 I know that. 



Laugh, and the world laughs with you ; 



Weep, and you weep alone, 

 For this brave old earth must borrow its mirth 



It has sorrows enough of its own. 

 Sing, and the hills will answer ; 



Sigh, it is lost in air, 

 For the echoes bound to a joyous sound 



They shrink from the voice of care. 



Eejoice, and men will seek you ; 



Grieve, and they all will go, 

 For they want full measure of all your pleasure 



They do not heed your woe. 

 Be glad, and your friends are many ; 



Be sad, and you lose them all, 

 For none will decline your nectared wine 



Alone, you must drink life's gall. 



Feast, and your halls are crowded ; 



Fast, and the world goes by ; 

 Succeed and give ; it will help you live 



No man can help you die. 

 There is room in the halls of pleasure 



For a long and lordly train, 

 But one by one we must all pass on 



Through the narrow aisles of pain. 



I like * Bethia Hardacre's ' song better, and to me the 

 spirit is truer : 



Bring me the book whose pages teach 

 The fortitude the Stoics preach, 

 Bring me the tome within whose scope 

 There lies the quickening of dead hope ; 

 Bring me the comfort of a mind 

 That good in every ill can find, 

 And of a heart that is content 

 With its desire's relmquishment. 



