If ever mortal injury befall
A fruitful tree, when it hath waxen tall,
Its leaf will fade, its root become unsound,
Its head begin to bend toward the ground;

And when the stem is snapped off at the root
'Twill yield its station to some fresh young shoot,
Resign thereto the garden's burgeoning
And all the lamp-like lustre of the spring;
But if, my friend! an evil shoot should rise,
Let not the good root suffer in thine eyes.
So when a father leaveth to his son
The world, and showeth him the course to run,
If he shall flout his father's regimen
Call him no longer son but alien.
He that abandoneth his teacher's path
Deserveth every evil that he hath.
This ancient hostelry is fashioned so
That thou canst not distinguish top from toe,
And he that wotteth of its evil way
Doth well to quit it with what speed he may.
Now let the stories which an ancient sage
Of prudent mind once told thy thoughts engage.*