Flee from the press, and dwell with soothfastness;
Suffice thee thy good, though it be small;
For hoard hath hate, and climbing tickleness,
Press hath envy, and weal is blent o'er all,
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Each one of the lines of this poem leads us to the virtues of righteousness. I recall the following ones: Savour no more than thee behove shall; / Read well thyself, that other folk canst read; / And truth thee shall deliver, it is no dread.
It is no dread; so the man said, but it is a crime to waste my time struggling to read these old words indeed.