At every trifle scorn to take offence;That always shows great pride or little sense.
What dire offense from amorous causes springs, What mighty contests rise from trivial things!
A minister, but still a man.
Here Ceres' gifts in waving prospect stand,And nodding tempt the joyful reaper's hand.
The vulgar boil, the learned roast, an egg.
Ye gods, annihilate but space and time,And make two lovers happy.
What dire offence from amorous causes springs,What mighty contests rise from trivial things.
Think nought a trifle, though it small appear;Small sands the mountain, moments make the year.
The soft droppes of raine perce the hard Marble, many strokes overthrow the tallest Oke.
He that despiseth small things will perish by little and little.
And many strokes, though with a little axe,Hew down and fell the hardest-timber'd oak.
Little drops of water, little grains of sandMake the mighty ocean, and the pleasant land.
For the maintenance of peace, nations should avoid the pin-pricks which forerun cannon-shots.
Seeks painted trifles and fantastic toys,And eagerly pursues imaginary joys.
A trifle makes a dream, a trifle breaks.
Trifles, light as air.
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